


The King That Nobody Wanted

by David_Dee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 55
Words: 78,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5191445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/David_Dee/pseuds/David_Dee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different outcome on the Trident changes the war between the Dragons and the Stags, with the ripples altering the lives of all in Westeros... and beyond...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've published this story elsewhere, as I've no doubt some people reading it here are aware, and ask people to forgive me any errors, roughness (especially in the early parts), and the undeniable tendency of this tale to go its own way, to the occasional surprise of the author. 
> 
> I hope people here enjoy it.

**PROLOGUE**  
  
It seemed to Ser Hugor Waters as he lay there, pinned beneath his horse, that the waters of the Trident beside him were running red.  
  
_I am tired.  That is all.  The waters I look on are no redder than any other waters.  I am tired. That is all._ His eyes went to the two figures lying near him.  He had watched them come together, and watched them battle there, on the Trident, and he had watched them wound each other, and he had watched them fall.  They had not moved since then.  Prince Rhaegar had said a woman's name, shortly after he fell.  Lord Robert had said nothing, but only given a wordless groan.  
  
It seemed a great privilege, to a poor hedge knight, to have seen all this.  Ser Hugor was not a knight of great standing.  He was a simple man, the bastard son of a petty lord who lived in a petty holdfast, whose father had cared just enough to grant him training in arms and not a bit more.  
  
Ser Hugor realized he couldn't feel his legs.  _They have gone to sleep.  They have been under the horse so long, that they have fallen to sleep, and I cannot feel them.  That is all._ He cursed his horse again.  It was a skittish thing, unused to war, and had managed to slip as he rode it across the Trident.  _What a tale this will be.  How I was beaten on the Trident by my very own horse._  
  
"Robert?" came a voice.  Ser Hugor watched as a man on horseback rode by.  He tried to attract his notice, but the only noise he could make was a gasp so faint, even he could barely hear it.  _I am dazed.  I am dazed, and my voice is not yet working as it should._..  
  
"Ned," groaned Lord Robert, stirring faintly.  Ned rode to his side and dismounted.  Robert attempted to raise himself, then fell back. He took a few unsteady breaths, then looked at his friend. "Ned... Did... did I kill him? Is Rhaegar... dead?"  
  
Ned nodded, his expression pained. "Yes. Yes, you have killed Prince Rhaegar."  
  
Ser Hugor felt a chill throughout his body.  He had known that the Prince had been lying there, very still for quite some time, but even so, he had hoped that perhaps... perhaps the Prince lived.  _After all, I have been lying here for just as long, and I am not dead._   But he was dead, and Hugor felt empty.  R _obert has killed Rhaegar_ , the hedge knight thought. _I came here, for him, and the Lord of Storm's End killed him, just the same, as if I wasn't here at all_.  And yet as he stared at the man, he realized that the Prince had killed Lord Robert, just as Lord Robert had killed him.  
  
Robert let out a strange and ghastly chuckle to Ned's news. "Good. Good." And then another long silence. "Got... what I wanted. Tell... tell... Lyanna... did it... for her. All... for... her..." And then his body simply... _slackened_ , and he was silent.  
  
So died Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.  _I have seen a great and terrible thing_ , thought Ser Hugor, the darkness growing around the edges of his vision.  _Men will sing of this day_.  But they would not sing of him.  _I am dying_ , he realized. _I am dying and no one will sing of me_.  What was there to sing of?  He was a petty hedge knight, who came to fight by the Prince because...  
  
_Because at Harrenhal, when he bested me, he gave me back my armor and my horse, without asking me to pay a thing.  And then he had a drink with me, and told me that I had run a good course, though I had not, **I had not** , and that was why he had beaten me_...   
  
That had been enough for Hugor, who had been staying out of the war, to come when he heard the Prince would be leading the army.  It seemed almost foolish now...  _But that is enough.  That is enough.  I am dead.  I am Ser Hugor Waters, who is dead, and this is my song, the song that no one will sing_...  
  
The darkness blotted out the rest of his vision, as he wondered what the tune would be.


	2. The Old Falcon

**THE OLD FALCON**  
  
Jon Arryn stared at the dead bodies of the Prince and the Lord of Storm's End before him and suppressed an urge to swear. "Divided in life, united in death," he said at last.  
  
Hoster Tully nodded. "It's almost poetic when you put it that way." He gave a shake of his head. "Still... damned inconvenient." Jon shot his fellow Lord Paramount a reproachful look, to which Hoster politely bowed his head. "So... what now?" the Lord of Riverun asked.  
  
"Ned is heading to Storm's End as we speak to break the siege and liberate Stannis," said Jon quietly. "Lord Stannis now. And from there... we shall see."  
  
"The words 'Lord Stannis' did not readily leap to your lips, I noticed," said Hoster. "Let us hope the words 'King Stannis' find a more... wide acceptance in the near future." He sighed. "Otherwise, I fear we are in for some trouble."  
  
Jon winced. "Hoster... do you have to chide me with things I know perfectly well..."  
  
"Yes," answered the Lord of the Riverlands. "Both as your friend, and your goodfather. People joined this rebellion for Robert. We have to hope they'll stay in it for his memory." He shook his head. "I've just watched the... _late_ Lord Frey pledge his support to our cause, then go white as a sheet when he learned Robert was dead. If he gets a good chance to unpledge himself, I think he might take it."  
  
"And do what?" asked Jon. "Throw himself on Aerys' mercy? Robert's dead--and so is Rhaegar. At the moment, the only choices are between Stannis and Aerys' madness."  
  
"They could crown Aegon..." began Hoster.  
  
"A babe," said Jon forcefully. "A babe of whom the world knows almost nothing now, save he's Rhaegar's son and Aerys' grandson..."  
  
"And they know so much more of Stannis?" stated Hoster.  
  
"They know that he was loyal to his brother, and has kept Storm's End through a long siege," stated Jon. "It will be enough for now." _Oh, please, by the Seven, let it be enough..._  
  
"Perhaps for those with us now it will be," said Hoster, with a nod. "But what of Dorne? And the Reach? And the Westerlands?" He leaned forward. "Tywin Lannister has sat through all this and done nothing--as yet. What if he decides to now? And what if he does not object to having a child on the throne? Especially if, for example, those around that child name him Hand?"  
  
Jon shut his eyes, suddenly feeling very tired. "If that is the case, Hoster, then we must hope we can beat him."


	3. Jaime

**JAIME**  
  
_I am glad I will never sit on this again,_ Jaime Lannister thought to himself, sleepily. _It is a damned uncomfortable seat..._ He glanced at the body, cooling on the ground of the throne room. _And I am even gladder you will never sit on it again, Aerys. Have a pleasant time in the Hells. I hear there's a lot of fire there, so you should feel at home._  
  
Jaime frowned to himself. He'd hoped at first, when the news of the Trident reached Aerys that it would calm him... and it had a little, at first. The mad old king spent his time chuckling about dead Lord Robert and dead Prince Rhaegar in downright sickening manner for a day or so... and then he'd gone on planning to set all of King's Landing aflame. Plans that seemed to quicken once it became obvious the rebels were still in the field. Jaime could still hear the King's rantings if he thought on it. _"They will see! They will all see! They have woken the dragon, and the dragon shall show them blood and FIRE!"_  
  
He'd been both relieved and terrified when his father arrived. And when the Sack began... he'd known what he must do.  
  
He cracked his eyes open and glanced at Aerys' corpse. And he had most certainly done it...  
  
"Jaime," came his father's voice. "What are you doing?"  
  
Jaime blinked and saw him standing there, in the doorway of the throne room. Lord Tywin, tall and imposing, eyes watching Jaime with naked disapproval. "I'm... I'm sorry, father," he said, standing up, and walking down the long uncomfortable steps down from the Iron Throne. "I... I was... tired."  
  
Tywin gave a slow nod, a frown appearing on his face that indicated that he personally didn't hold with being tired. "You are fortunate, Jaime, that only I witnessed this. What you have done here is... noteworthy enough without adding flourishes like this to it."  
  
Jaime nodded as he approached his father's side. "Yes. Yes. I understand. Yes." He coughed. "So... what do we do now? Are..."  
  
"You will do nothing," stated Tywin flatly. "Stay in your quarters. Appear... contrite. Call a septon to talk to, if you feel a need for it. As for me--I have already sent messengers to Lord Arryn with an initial offer. I hope to have his reply before their forces arrive here. I suspect they will prove... agreeable. Their new Stag King is still sitting in Storm's End, eating rats if the reports are true. They will need every bit of help in bringing him to the Iron Throne, and I think they will appreciate our... clearing the way for him."  
  
Jaime felt a certain sick feeling in his stomach at his father's comments. "What... what do you mean...?"  
  
Tywin regarded his son coldly. "What do you imagine I mean?"  
  
That sick feeling grew into outright nausea. "Father... what... what have you done?" asked Jaime.  
  
Jaime Lannister thought he saw the slightest of smiles come to Tywin's face, though he could not be sure. "What had to be done," answered the Lord of Casterly Rock, in a voice as hard and as cold as the castle he ruled over.


	4. Eddard

**EDDARD**  
  
Eddard did his best not to look around him as he walked to Stannis' tent. The ground still stank of blood, rot, and burnt bodies. _All this butchery, and for what?_ he thought to himself. _I was going to offer them terms..._  
  
And perhaps Mace Tyrell would have listened to him, if he'd been able to--but by the time Eddard arrived the Lord of Highgarden was in the middle of an effort to storm Storm's End. Ned had listened to his prisoner Mathis Rowan tell the tale, of his lord hearing the news of Robert's death, of the lengthy debate and of Mace's decision to chance it all on one swift action. Lord Tyrell had hoped to win immortality by ending the war in a single stroke, in a battle that singers would write songs of for centuries to come.   
  
Eddard Stark did not consider himself an expert on singers and their songs, but he didn't think that men would sing much on the Storming of Storm's End, and that if they did, it would be to castigate the folly, vanity, and ineptitude of one man. Mace Tyrell's soldiers had battered at the walls three times and been repulsed each time, with ever greater casualties. The men of the Reach were in the middle of their fourth attempt when Eddard arrived with his army. He'd had no choice in the matter--he'd had to attack. Despite their exhaustion, and Mace's incompetent generalship, Tyrell's men had fought well--the battle had been nearer than Eddard would have liked. And then Stannis had issued forth from Storm's End.   
  
Stannis and his men were starving and tired, but they fought with a vicious fury despite all that--perhaps because of that. And that had been enough to turn the tide. The great army of the Reach that had besieged Storm's End for months was finished. As far as Eddard could see, the only immortality Mace Tyrell had won was that his Seven Gods offered to all their loyal followers, if their septons told the truth. The Lord of the Reach had fallen from his horse, and been hacked to death by a crowd of Stannis' men. The body's wounds had been grievous--it had looked to Eddard as if beasts had savaged it.  
  
 _This war is making wildlings of us all,_ Eddard thought, as he entered the great tent. Stannis Baratheon sat in the darkness of it, the tent that had previously been Mace Tyrell's. A cursory glance showed that quite a few Tyrell roses in the decorations had been torn or despoiled. A small meal had been set before Stannis--it'd been barely touched, despite the obvious hunger of the man. _But perhaps it is not food he's hungry for,_ Eddard thought, then chided himself for being so impressionable.   
  
Stannis' lifted his icy blue eyes as Eddard stepped forward. "Lord Stark," he stated flatly.  
  
"Lord Baratheon..." began Eddard.  
  
Stannis shut his eyes. "So it is true then. Robert is dead."  
  
"Yes," said Eddard quietly. "I... I was with him when he... passed... He..." Eddard took a deep breath. "He was like a brother to me, and..."  
  
Stannis seemed completely unmoved. "He _was_ a brother to me," he said calmly. "I see little reason to talk of his passing, Stark. He is dead. We live, and must deal with the world my brother has made..." The frown on the Lord of the Stormlands' face was unmistakable. "Lord Redwyne wishes to parley. I wish you and some of your commanders to be with me when he does so. I fear I have few men fit to meet an emissary at the moment."   
  
Eddard nodded. "Jon Arryn sent me to offer terms..."  
  
"Jon Arryn will not be king," stated Stannis. "I will decide the terms to Highgarden. Not he. Is this clear?"  
  
Eddard stiffened slightly. "I believe it is, Lord Baratheon." He gave a slight nod. "I will go gather my commanders." Eddard turned to leave.   
  
"Lord Stark." Eddard glanced back at Stannis. "You have my gratitude for what you have done here today. Had you not come, I might be imprisoned. Or dead."  
  
"It was done for memory of your brother, sir," said Eddard simply.  
  
Stannis gave a curt nod. "I suspected as much. Still, you have my thanks."  
  
Eddard left the tent, passing a short man with brown hair who was heading towards it. His mind had, he realized, played out many first meetings with Lord Stannis. None of them had gone like that.  
  
He found that... worrying.


	5. The She-Wolf

**THE SHE WOLF**  
  
Her dreams were of ice and fire.  
  
A winter rose bloomed on a stony shore. A direwolf shuddered under a giant to protect her cub. Seas ran red, then black. King's Landing was on fire, and yet a great glacier stood in its center, apparently untouched. "They will take what is yours! What is ours!" roared the flames. "Will you let them?" A strange groan came from the glacier. "Let them have no shelter, no rest, no place to lay their heads!" A crack appeared in the glacier. A large chunk of ice split off, falling into the flames. And suddenly, she was there, surrounded by the fire, as that huge cold thing moved towards her. She ran, and it did not fall on her, but the ice shattered, and now there were a hundred thousand shards flying through the air, sharp and deadly...  
  
Lyanna Stark awoke, and looked about her. There was no fire raging about her, no ice threatening her life. She was still in the Tower of Joy, lying on her small bed, its sheets stained with sweat and blood. "You're finally up, milady," came a quiet voice. Lyanna turned to see the Kingsguard member standing quietly in the corner.  
  
"Ser Arthur." Lyanna took a deep breath, and shut her eyes. She still felt tired and drained. "What... what has..."  
  
"You had a... difficult birth, milady," said Arthur Dayne. "Some... time ago. And after that..."  
  
Lyanna's eyes jolted open. "My... what has happened to my..."  
  
The Sword of Morning smiled gently. "Relax. Your son is fine and healthy..."  
  
Lyanna gave a quick nod. "Give him to me," she said. "Please..."  
  
Arthur Dayne nodded and left the room. Lyanna leaned back, trying to capture a bit of rest. How much time had passed? What had happened? She needed to know... The Kingsguard knight returned with a small woman who Lyanna didn't recognize who held a child tightly to her breast. "You were... feverish, milady," said Arthur quietly. "For... some time.  We... brought a nurse in case..."  
  
"I understand," said Lyanna quietly. She motioned for the child. "Let... let me see him." And then her child was in her arms, small and precious and frail, and for just one bare moment, the unreasonable feeling sprouted in Lyanna's heart that it had all been worth it, even though she knew that to be false. "I... I must know how things stand. Has... the crown won or..." _Tell me who I must mourn, Ser Arthur. I have to know what I've paid for all this._  
  
"It... is hard to say," muttered Arthur. "Much remains... in the balance. Prince Rhaegar and Robert Baratheon met in battle on the Trident." He bit his lip, and Lyanna felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "They..."  
  
Lyanna felt her son squirm uncomfortably. "Prince Rhaegar has... fallen, hasn't he?"  
  
"Both he and Lord Robert perished in the battle, facing each other," said Arthur. "Since then things have been... unsettled... For the realm, and I fear you and your child personally. Ser Oswell and the Lord Commander are... considering our options." There was an uncomfortable silence. "Milady, I wish things could be otherwise. If... If Rhaegar hadn't died..."  
  
"But Rhaegar lived, Ser Dayne," said Lyanna. He stared at her, puzzled, until she kissed her son on the forehead. "My son. Little Rhaegar Targaryen..."


	6. The Old Falcon

**THE OLD FALCON**  
  
Jon Arryn was doing his best to study the dispatches before him when Kevan Lannister entered the chamber of the Small Council that had become the headquarters for the allies in King's Landing. "My apologies," said the younger man. "I've had much to deal with..."   
  
Hoster Tully idly sipped his wine. "So have we all." The Lord of Riverrun set down his cup. "How is your elder brother?"  
  
Kevan managed a pleasant smile as he took his seat. "He tells me that the way to Bronzegate has been safe and easy. He and my niece should be there with their retinue within a fortnight."   
  
Jon nodded. He was of mixed mind about Tywin's decision to simply... absent himself from King's Landing. On the one hand, it was a rather disquieting sign of the Lord of the Westerlands' famed pride--on the other hand, his younger brother was far easier to deal with. _And besides, we are mostly... waiting here, setting things in place for young Stannis' coming. You cannot blame a father for wishing to leave this behind to see his only daughter wedded._  
  
At least that was Jon kept telling himself, even as a part of him did just that.  
  
"Still no news of Gregor Clegane?" asked Hoster quietly.  
  
"We've had reports of him in Duskendale, in Crackclaw--even in the Saltpans," replied Kevan. "But nothing more definite."  
  
"Astounding that a man so large could vanish so completely," noted Hoster.  
  
"Ser Gregor is a large man, but the world is bigger," stated Kevan levelly. "Even he can hide in it." He gave his golden head a shake. "We want him as badly as you do. He killed three men who we sent to apprehend him, and wounded five more in his escape."  
  
"No one has stated otherwise," said Jon doing his best to sound pleasant and convinced of House Lannister's relative innocence in this matter. Personally, he had his doubts. When Stannis had sent his wishes regarding the killers of Elia Martell, and the young Prince and Princess, all those weeks ago, those two names that had been circulating as rumors had suddenly, remarkably leapt up as fact. Ser Amory Lorch had been found stabbed to death in an alley, to the sorrow of none, while Ser Gregor Clegane had bloodily gone on the run. It was all just a tad too convenient, the manner in which the pair had each, in their own way, been silenced.  
  
"Perhaps my own failure makes me... tense on the subject," said Kevan, green eyes gleaming with what Jon thought was either anger or remorse. "Any word from Highgarden?"  
  
"A few... empty missives," muttered Hoster. "They have received Stannis' terms, and are... considering them. They are stricken with grief by all this bloodshed. They are..."  
  
"...having Randyll Tarly beat us back at Bitterbridge," said Kevan. "I think there is their answer to Stannis' terms. Not that I fault them for it."  
  
"They are not so onerous," stated Jon Arryn, trying his best to smother his feelings that they were far more onerous than the terms he had intended to offer, and indeed than any terms he would offer. "Lord Baratheon is young, and somewhat prickly, I hear."  
  
"Somewhat prickly we have seen," noted Hoster with a snort.   
  
Jon simply ignored Lord Tully's comment. "And that long siege... They say Mace feasted before the walls, the silly fool. Stannis' blood will be running hot now. But it will cool in time, and we can get him to see sense." He shook his head. "Besides, the Reach can hardly stand alone."  
  
"It may not be alone," said Hoster. "Dorne's been quiet as well, and something tells me their blood is also running hot at the moment." He folded his hands before him. "Elia was well-beloved there."  
  
"It was a sack," muttered Kevan, looking away. "Men were on edge--drunk on killing. They had orders to avoid such... mad slaughter, but when you go to war... sometimes the curs that go with you..."  
  
"Regret changes nothing. The lady is still dead, Ser Kevan," noted Hoster with a sigh. "And the rumors of Dragonstone..." He shook his head. "When we came to King's Landing, I thought this war all but won, barring an extraordinary mishap. Now..." He shrugged.   
  
"I would hardly say we are in a bad spot," said Jon.  
  
"No, but I fear there's a long, hard slog ahead of us," answered Hoster. "And in truth I cannot stay here much longer--I need to get back to Riverrun. The Blackwoods and the Brackens have started to get quarrelsome, Lord Whent wants his sons' bones brought back to him... And there are a thousand other things to do. The Riverlands do not run themselves, gentlemen."   
  
Kevan Lannister regarded the older man. "And your troops?"  
  
"I'll leave them here under Brynden," said Hoster. A sudden frown touched his face. "He enjoys playing the soldier, so you'll hear no complaint from him." The acid in Lord Tully's voice suggested they'd hear no complaint from the Lord of the Riverlands' either.  
  
"Well, if you must, we cannot keep you from your duty. We'll miss your guidance," said Jon. It occurred to him this war seemed to be leaving him lonelier the longer it went on. So many good friends, either dead or away, he thought. And a few now enemies. He felt very old, and tired all at once.


	7. The Foul-Smelling Flower

**THE FOUL-SMELLING FLOWER**  
  
Garth Tyrell waddled through the halls of Highgarden, and listened to the cries of a babe echoing down them. He briefly wondered if it were his grandniece, or their... youngest guest. _I suppose it doesn't matter. Both the poor dears have so much to cry about. And I doubt they even realize it, yet._ Reaching the solar, he was unsurprised to see his sister-in-law leafing through the letters. "A few more for you," he stated, and then followed it with a belch. _I must watch my meals_ , he reminded himself, with the sad realization that of course he would not.  
  
Olenna Tyrell, the Dowager Lady of Highgarden known to most around her as the Queen of Thorns, picked them up deftly and opened them. "Hmmmph. Lord Florent is pledging his loyalty and undying support in this..." She cleared her throat. "...'Most difficult time'."  
  
"Oh, dear," said Garth. "That does sound ominous." He coughed, and attempted to control a burst of flatulence he felt coming on. "I suppose you want me to... keep an eye on the Brightwater?"  
  
"As if it were filled with poachers," she muttered. "Which is not far from the truth." She shook her head. "Tell me, do the Seven hand every Florent a large dose of foolish ambition to go with those awful ears of theirs, or is it simply the ones I've met?" She wrinkled her nose. "Garth... really."  
  
"I overindulged in some Dornish peppers earlier," he muttered apologetically. He cleared his throat and got to work changing the subject. "Lord Tarly seems hopeful..."  
  
"Lord Tarly seems eager to write his name in history's book in bright bloody red letters," said Olenna. "Still, he has the ability to do it. Something poor, silly Mace lacked." She frowned to herself. "Has... has the body been taken care of?"  
  
Garth nodded. "He rests with his fathers now."  
  
"One hopes that they are giving him a piece of their minds," muttered Olenna. She shook her head. "Such folly, Garth! Such bloody, stupid folly! And that silly nephew of mine... making it worse... saddling us with..."  
  
"You could always agree to Baratheon's terms," stated Garth quietly.  
  
Olenna nodded. "I could. Highgarden bends the knee. Highgarden pays a tribute. My grandchildren go to King's Landing as... guarantors of the peace. As well, other... matters." The scowl on the Queen of Thorns face only grew deeper. "And my dear young Willas starts his reign with every lord in the Reach seeing him as not only a child but a weakling, ruled by a king with no love for his house..." She sighed. "Garth, I fear we may be good and buggered in the long run. But I think we might be able to keep the buggery to a minimum with some careful effort on our parts."  
  
Garth chuckled as he considered his reply, when he heard the sound of small feet behind him. Turning around, he saw the small form of Highgarden's most honored guest.  
  
"Your Grace," he said with a sweeping bow directed at young Viserys Targaryen. "I thought you were in bed."  
  
The boy fixed Garth and Olenna with a gaze that Garth found... unsettling. "I couldn't sleep." He looked at the pair for a long moment. "Father says that our subjects are either traitors or loyal. Which are you?"  
  
"Why loyal, Your Grace," said Garth. "Deeply and unfailingly loyal." As he said it, Garth Tyrell wondered how long that would be the case.


	8. Cersei

**CERSEI**  
  
Cersei Lannister stood tall and proud next to her father in the great pavilion that had been laid before Bronzegate. Both and she and Lord Tywin were clad in the crimson and gold of their house, in the most opulent clothing they possessed. She took a deep breath, to calm her fluttering stomach. _You are a lion, and the lion does not show fear before lesser beasts,_ she reminded herself, glancing at her father. Tywin Lannister stood still like a magnificent statue, the banner of House Lannister spread over him. If he felt any discomfort standing here, he didn't show it. Cersei turned her eyes back to the banners of Stannis and his supporters, and tried to name them. Some were easy to recognize, like the stag of Baratheon, or the dire wolf of Stark, others took some effort, like the lizard-lion of House Reed, or the lightning bolt of Dondarrion but many were strange to her. _I will have to learn them all,_ she thought, as she puzzled over a very odd one--a black ship with what appeared to be an onion on its sails. _It would look very ill for a queen not to know her subjects' banners_...  
  
She wished Jaime were here. She had not seen him for months now. Cersei had hoped to join him at King's Landing, for a brief reunion, but father had insisted she rush to him on the road to Bronzegate. Her heart bled for her brother--all alone in King's Landing, with no friends around him, surrounded by a thousand accusing eyes. _I wish I were there right now, to put my arms around him, and tell him that everything is all right, that he will always have me..._  
  
But that would be a lie--a sweet lie, but a lie nonetheless. Her father was wedding her to Stannis Baratheon, to save her house, and her brother. "He is a young man with ideas," Tywin Lannister had said to her, as they rode to Bronzegate, "but a young man nonetheless. And the favor of young men is easily won by beauty and the minds of young men easily distracted from grand ideas. Bewitch him. Win his affection, and make him more... agreeable." His eyes had fixed on hers as he said this. "You can do this, my dear?"  
  
Cersei gulped. _It is for Jaime's sake. Jaime killed the old king, that awful old man, and now... now they are calling for his head. I must wed Stannis to save his life._ She felt a chill and wished her soon-to-be-betrothed would hurry up and show himself. It was uncomfortable standing here in this miserable weather.  
  
As if in response to her wish, a crowd made its way from that small sea of banners. A large man with an antlered helmet stood at its head, clad in green and gold. That had to be Stannis. As he got closer, Cersei got her first look at her husband-to-be. Stannis was tall, and looked strong, but his face was thin and jagged and pinched looking, with a large jaw and hollow cheeks. Cersei suppressed a frown--not an ugly man, exactly, but not a handsome one either. _It is for Jaime's sake--Jaime and the Lannisters. I--I will be queen._ Somehow, she couldn't make herself believe the last part.  
  
Tywin took her hand, and then swiftly knelt before Stannis. Cersei followed her father's example, doing her best to follow her father's advice. _Smile at him. Look at him softly and tenderly, all full of sweetness._ "Your Grace," declared Tywin grandly, his face a hard mask that gave away nothing, "I come here to pledge my leal fealty. With me is my daughter, who has fallen in love with you from afar from the mere hearing of your great valor and nobility, and for whom I humbly ask the honor of being granted your hand in marriage."  
  
To her surprise, Stannis did not look at her, and instead kept his eyes fixed on her father. "Why do you kneel, Lord Lannister? You are Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, and I am Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. We meet here as equals." Stannis' voice was hard and rough. _He sounds like an old man,_ thought Cersei, who couldn't help but remember Prince Rhaegar's lovely voice singing, or even the fair sound of her sweet Jaime's laughter.  
  
"Can the Seven Kingdoms go without a king?" asked Tywin, his voice ringing in the pavilion. "I say they cannot. And that being the case... what other king can there be but you?"  
  
Stannis frowned at that. "There are Targaryens yet alive," he noted. "What of them? I cannot claim the Iron Throne by mere whim. To do so would be mad folly."  
  
"Your Grace's natural humility and care for the laws do you great credit," said another voice. Cersei looked to the side to see Grand Maester Pycelle tottering his way from her father's retinue. "But I must say they are unwarranted in this case. You, Stannis Baratheon, are the lawful and most apparent King of these Seven Kingdoms, by simple and well-practiced precedent." Cersei blinked. She had wondered why the Grand Maester had come with them from King's Landing. Somehow, finding out why was proving... disquieting. As Pycelle tottered to the center of the great green, Cersei felt her leg twitch in discomfort. _Not now,_ she thought, doing her best to keep her movements subtle and a smile on her face.  
  
The Grand Maester cleared his throat, and unrolled a large scroll. "Now then, Your Grace, your accession is based on the same sound principles as that of your great-grandfather, Aegon V. When your most honored ancestor took the throne, it was based on the decision of the Grand Council of the Realm. Aegon was the youngest of his father's four sons, though the two eldest had predeceased him. His third brother had taken the vows of my order, which were felt to be enough to remove him from the succession. However, both Prince Daeron--his eldest brother--and Prince Aerion--his second eldest--had left issue."  
  
 _Shut up, old man,_ thought Cersei, hoping against hope that Pycelle would stop talking soon. She did not see how any of this concerned what was happening now. _Aerion... Prince Aerion... where have I heard that name?_ She tried to remember, but could not. The twitch in her leg was becoming an irritating ache, and her knees were starting to throb. She looked at her father, but aside from a slight downward twitch of his mouth, he seemed utterly unmoved. Stannis likewise stood stiff as a statue, frowning, though Cersei saw much of his retinue twitching, and at least one yawning. _Lucky man..._  
  
"Now," continued Pycelle, manifestly warming to his subject, "Daeron's child was a daughter and thus, by long-established precedent, behind Aegon by the normal principles of succession. However, Aerion had left a son, Maegor." Cersei blinked. That seemed odd to her somehow... and then the name Aerion leapt to the forefront of his mind. _The Prince Who Thought He Was A Dragon, the one who died drinking wildfire..._ "Despite young Maegor's excellent claim," continued Pycelle, "the combination of his own extreme youth, and his late father's known instability lead the Council to exclude him from the succession." The Maester nodded at Stannis. "Your Grace, this renders the situation as clear as the sun in the sky on a bright and cloudless day. With the deaths of Prince Rhaegar and your most worthy brother Robert, you are the oldest and closest male heir in the line of descent not bound by oath from the throne. Aerys' surviving children--like Prince Maegor--are both far too young to assume a true and proper rule, and, again like Prince Maegor, bear the stain of a father with a mind too unruly for the Iron Throne as, alas, these Seven Kingdoms have discovered to their sorrow."  
  
 _Finally._ Cersei prepared to rise only to feel her father's grip tighten on her arm. "And yet, Grand Maester," said Stannis, "I was unaware that there had been a Grand Council on this matter."  
  
"Your Grace," said Pycelle with a merry laugh, "what is this present war but a Grand Council by the sword?" He turned around regarding the various lords assembled. "Aerys by breaking the oaths of his own coronation, forced action on the Lords Paramount. Had the ways of peace been open, I am certain they would have taken--but Aerys closed them off as well, and thus created this present tumult which stands for a Grand Council just as a trial by combat stands for a trial by other means." He turned once again to Stannis and smiled a pleasant and grandfatherly smile. "And so, Your Grace, fear not to accept those honors and titles that are your lawful due. You, and no other, are our king."  
  
Stannis nodded at this, though it seemed to Cersei his frown had not lightened in the least, and in fact had grown quite severe at several points in Pycelle's recitation. "Very well. This being so, I, Stannis Baratheon, do formally proclaim myself King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, in the name of the old gods and the new."  
  
"Long may you reign," came a solitary voice from his followers. And then, slowly, gradually, applause began and then cheers. Stannis' glanced at the noisy crowd with an undeniable sense of unease, raising his hand. He said something that Cersei couldn't make out over the noise, and then an "Enough" that she could. It seemed to Cersei the plaudits quieted far faster than they'd risen. Stannis turned to Tywin. "Rise, Lord Tywin, and know I accept your fealty, and your daughter's hand in equal measure."   
  
"I thank Your Grace for this immeasurable honor," stated Tywin. Cersei took to her feet with great relief. Still, even if it was good to finally get the ache out, all that had been disquieting. Stannis' words were courtly, but his voice was tight and clipped, and the man himself... _He is no Rhaegar,_ she thought. _He is not even a Robert._  
  
Stannis gave a formal, and exceedingly stiff bow. "Lord Buckler offers us the use of Bronzegate for the ceremony and the feast. Shall we enter together, Lord Tywin?"  
  
"Once again, Your Grace honors me," said her father flatly. For a moment, Cersei felt a strange wish to run from all this, run far away, but her father's hand remained on her arm, and she was pulled quietly and firmly to the castle.  
  



	9. Eddard

**EDDARD**  
  
Ned sat in the hall of Bronzegate as Lord Buckler's musicians played for the wedding feast. The Rains of Castamere, he thought as he recognized the tune. A bit grim for a wedding feast, but then this is rather grim for a wedding... Stannis-- _King_ Stannis--sat at the head of the table, his eyes fixed on the company. He barely touched the food set before him, and if his wineglass had ever been refilled during the course of the meal, Eddard hadn't seen it. The appetite of Stannis' young queen seemed just as slight, though Ned was willing to put that down to nerves. _My lady wife ate just as little at our wedding, after all_... He recalled that he had not seen Catelyn for many months. _She has given me a son_ , he thought, _and I barely know her_.  
  
As the 'Rains of Castamere' ended and 'the Bear and the Maiden Fair' began, Willam Dustin grabbed a large turkey leg off of Theo Wull's plate. "Hey!" snapped Theo.   
  
"I claim this by right of my hunger," said Willam with a smile. "My hand has acted in place of a Grand Council."   
  
Ethan Glover and Martyn Cassel both snickered at that, and even Wull burst into a smile. "Like I'd want anything you got your grubby mitts on," Theo muttered.  
  
"That's not what sweet young Jeyne tells me," laughed William.   
  
"Fuck you," muttered Theo.  
  
"Indeed she has," said William, taking a great bite of his turkey leg.  
  
As Mark Rysell shook his head, Ethan Glover looked at the King and Queen. "Suppose there'll be a bedding?"  
  
"Hmm, I hope so," said Willam, leering at Cersei. "I've a wager with young Lord Lolliston on whether the Queen's tits are as fine as the Lady of Winterfell's."  
  
Martyn glanced at his friend. "Who'd you wager on?"  
  
"That you could ask that of me!" declared Willam, in mock offense. He placed a hand on Ned's shoulder. "Such is my friendship with you, sweet Ned, that I have wagered a silver stag on your wife's breasts being finer than our new Queen's." Willam leaned back and stroked his chin. "Which does suggest a rather surprising lack of loyalty on young Meryn's part. Hoster Tully would do well to keep his eye on that one..."  
  
Theo Wull gave a snort. "I think your wager will remain a thing of air and words, Dustin. Oh, the Queen's a pretty morsel, I'll grant you, but can you see any maid here wishing to get the clothes off of that." He nodded at Stannis, then shook his head. "Their little hands'll freeze, like as not."   
  
Ned frowned as his friends shared a chuckle, feeling a well of pity for the young King and Queen. Look at him. _He sits there in Robert's place, and he knows it. And she--married to a man she doesn't know, who doesn't know her, all for the sake of her father's ambitions..._ His eyes darted to Tywin, sitting at his own table surrounded by his lords and bannermen. Grand Maester Pycelle sat next to him, oddly enough, sipping a small glass of wine. The pair seemed to be talking and yet through it all, the Lord of Casterly Rock's eyes remained fixed on his daughter and his new goodson. _Is that the face of a man who's gotten his life's great design, or a man who's been forced to sup on dust and ashes? I cannot tell..._  
  
"Ned," came the familiar voice of Howland Reed.   
  
Eddard turned to see the little cranogman standing at his shoulder. "How... goes matters, Howland?" he asked quietly.  
  
Howland glanced around the hall. "I have been asking... and listening," he whispered. "Men often overlook a small man near them, when they talk. And I have heard nothing of the Lady Lyanna."  
  
Eddard winced. He'd hoped some rumor of his sister would have at least surfaced, but still nothing. Perhaps he was being naïve--after all, Gregor Clegane, a man who he would have sworn could hide nowhere, remained unfound after all these long weeks. One highborn lady could doubtless do just as well--perhaps even better. _Assuming she still lives._  
  
"Well... keep looking, and listening..." muttered Ned. "I'm certain..."  
  
"Ned..." Howland paused, as if considering the best way to put this. "I am not finished. I have heard nothing of the Lady Lyanna... but the Maester... the maester had a raven from Highgarden. Ser Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne have appeared there, with the White Bull." He took a deep breath. "They came there to bend the knee to Prince Viserys."


	10. The She-Wolf

**THE SHE-WOLF**  
  
Lyanna watched on the ship's deck as the great tower of Oldtown faded into the distance. She raised up little Rhaegar. T _here it goes, little one. There it goes for who knows how long. Home._ If her son cared that he was leaving Westeros, possibly forever, he did not show it, instead gurgling merrily.  
  
 _He does not know. He's a babe--this is all one to him. He has no understanding to make him sorrow--no memories to make him weep._ She envied him that. For her, she could not stop remembering. When the Lord Commander told her what the Kingsguard had decided she had wept and pleaded. "Let me go home, sers--or if not that, let me find some nice spot of land where me and my son can live in quiet and peace. I care not for titles and honors. Let his little uncle Viserys have all of that. Indeed, who cares what you call him? If not 'Targaryen', let his name be 'Snow', or 'Waters' or even 'Sand'--he will be my dear son all the same, the memory of his beloved father, and I shall raise him to honor that memory in loyalty, not treachery."  
  
Ser Arthur Dayne had looked at her with sympathetic eyes at that, and even Oswell Whent had seemed abashed, but Lord Commander Hightower had regarded her sternly. "Lady, you speak many names but the one that all will say, and that one is 'Blackfyre'." And with that he had sent her on her way.  
  
She shook her head as she held little Rhaegar to her. She should not let the White Bull turn into an ogre in her mind--he and his sworn brothers had given her funds--Arthur Dayne had even gotten her  and his family's own wet nurse passage on this ship before going to join the others at Highgarden, and given her a small token, of a dragon rampant, embossed in gold. "There is a house in Braavos, kept by the Crown for state visits. Show this to the people there--they will take care of the rest," he'd told her. That was a kindness.   
  
Indeed, all this was a kindness. There would be no place for her among the loyalists, not with a son who muddied the succession and offended Dorne. She'd heard that Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper was coming to the Reach with troops--that was a man, a dangerous man, who would have no love for her or her little son. Of the rebels--well, her brother would receive her kindly, she knew that, but Lord Tywin Lannister was wedding his daughter to Stannis Baratheon and.... _A king slain, and a prince and princess all but babes, and poor Elia Martell..._ Lyanna bit her lip. _The Lannisters truly are as ravening as lions._  
  
She looked at her son, and wept. If only they had known! Then she and Rhaegar would have done their duties, gone their separate ways, lived their lives. But they'd been swept up in a sweet madness of love and prophecy and grand futures, but love--love most of all. She thought back to the Tower of Joy. _We thought we could make a world for us, just we two._ Well, they had in the end, for a short time, but the price of that world was cruel and bloody. _Father... Brandon... poor Robert... the king... Elia... the prince and princess... a hundred hundred fine brave men whose names I used to honor... a thousand thousand fine men whose names I will never know... and Rhaegar... Rhaegar... Rhaegar... Rhaegar with his sad eyes and his handsome face, Rhaegar dead on the Trident, Rhaegar dead and gone forever..._  
  
"Is all all right, miss?"   
  
Lyanna turned to see a tall Summer Islander standing near her. "No... no...," she sniffled. "I... it is the war. I... much of my family died in it."  
  
The man shook his head in sympathy. "That is war," he said softly. "Bloody and terrible. It makes children orphans and women widows, and afterwords the folk of renown they meet and sit together, and sing their songs and suddenly all that has become grand.  It is different in the Summer Isles.  But only because we work hard to make it so." He smiled at her son. "Is that pretty babe yours, miss?"  
  
Lyanna nodded quietly. "His father... my husband is dead." She shut her eyes. "Killed in battle." She paused, considering what to say. "He was... a harper."


	11. Davos

**DAVOS**  
  
"Oh, six maids there were in a spring-fed pool..." sang Ser Peter Plumm drunkenly, as his fellow Lannister men tapped the tune out on the tables. Plumm began to merrily, and unsteadily, dance along with the tune.  
  
 _Look at them. You'd think they were nothing more than a bunch of drunken sailors, if not for their finery. And even then... some of the sailors I know dress just as well..._ Ser Davos Seaworth turned away, feeling acutely embarrassed. Somehow, it felt wrong for him to be here among so many old houses, a member of their revels. _All I did was deliver some onions..._ The ends of the fingers of his left hand throbbed, still sore from where the King had chopped them. At moments like this, he wondered if he had made the proper choice--and not because of his fingertips.  
  
He shook his head. _My sons will stand higher than I ever will. And if I must feel like a pauper among princes to let them--it is worth it._ Davos felt a sudden tugging at his sleeve. Stannis' newly-made squire, young Balon Swann stood at his side. "His Grace wishes to see you," said the young man quietly.   
  
Davos nodded awkwardly, and rose from his seat, following Balon towards the king. They passed briefly by Lord Tywin who was talking to Grand Maester Pycelle--or rather, listening to the Grand Maester talk. "--worry overmuch," stated Pycelle, sagely stroking his grey beard. "Highgarden is grasping at straws. Why--I myself am being threatened with a Grand Conclave..." It seemed to Davos that Pycelle was talking a bit loud, and he wondered if the Grand Maester was more in his cups than he appeared. The Lord Tywin seemed to glance at Ser Davos as he passed, and despite himself the ex-smuggler felt a chill. _There's another man who'd rather I was not here..._ It struck Davos that it seemed strange, and slightly ominous that the Lord of Casterly Rock was seated so far from the king. _Then again, I don't know if I'd want him too near me if he was my goodfather._ His hand went to his luck despite himself.  
  
Stannis looked drawn and tired when Davos reached him, and perhaps his eyes mistook him, but Queen Cersei didn't look much better. "Ser Davos," said the King, with something that looked not unlike a smile.   
  
Davos managed a rather stiff bow. "Your Grace wished to see me?"  
  
"For two reasons," said Stannis. "Firstly, to introduce you to my wife." Cersei Lannister regarded the man, her eyes clouding with puzzlement and what Davos couldn't help but suspect was distaste. "This is Ser Davos Seaworth of Cape Wrath. He saved my life, and the lives of many other fine men."  
  
Davos shifted uncomfortably. "I brought some onions, Your Grace. Nothing more."  
  
"Through Paxter Redwyne's fleet," stated Stannis. "It was bravely done."  
  
The Queen looked at him with growing comprehension. "The knight of the black ship..." she stated.  
  
Davos glanced away. "For most, Your Grace, I'm the knight of the onion..."  
  
"It is the black ship that I have need of, Davos," said Stannis. "I offered Redwyne a peaceful settlement, if he would bend the knee and put his ships in my service." That faint smile had vanished and become a darker frown than usual. "He has done... quite the opposite."  
  
"I've... heard something of that manner," muttered Davos. Lord Redwyne's taking the remaining Targaryens to Highgarden had been the talk of Stannis' retinue all the way to Bronzegate--news had even trickled down to him.  
  
"I need a fleet," said the King. "A fleet and the men to sail it. Honest men, if they can be found. It occurred to me you might know such men."   
  
Davos bit his lip. "The men I know, Your Grace, are honest--up to a point. A point and no further."  
  
Stannis nodded. "I suspected as much. And such men will have to serve--for now. Wedding feast or no, Ser Davos--I am fighting a war. And I mean to win it."


	12. Cersei

**CERSEI**  
  
The wine they'd served her was thin and watery, and the food poor and tasteless. _Such poor hospitality to their King and Queen_ , thought Cersei. _If House Buckler imagines they'll gain my favor with this farce, they're fools_. She'd barely touched both and now her stomach felt unsettled. Also, the room was dimly lit by flickering, smoky torches, so her eyes were tight and strained. _As miserable as the rest of this sorry thing,_ she thought as she rubbed them.  
  
She had always thought her wedding would be something grand, that she and the Prince would be wed in Baleor's Great Sept by the High Septon himself in all his finery, surrounded by an admiring throng. Instead the wedding had been held in the sept of a minor castle, presided over by a little old man clad in a simple wool robe, with only a bunch of drunken louts to see it. She felt robbed, and not of a possession, but of something she had always felt she carried deep within her, something no one could take away. Oh, there had been moments of magic, such as how just before the ceremony her father had cloaked her in the colors of House Lannister and whispered "Your mother wore this on our wedding," but they had been short and invariably followed by disappointment. _I wore that cloak for a little while, and then the King took it off and put me in that worn old thing of black and gold_... She shut her eyes, and tried to remember what her mother's cloak had felt like, but what would keep coming back to her mind was her mother hugging her in the gardens of Casterly Rock. _But that was all a long, long time ago..._  
  
"My lady," came the voice of the king. Her husband. Cersei opened her eyes and saw that he had risen from his seat and was offering her his hand. "My lady," said Stannis softly--or as softly as he could manage, at least. "My lady, will you grant me this dance?" Cersei stared at it, listening to the music playing. 'Two Hearts That Beat As One', she realized, and recalled Stannis whispering something to young Balon Swann a little earlier. She managed a nod, took Stannis' hand and rose from her seat, walking with him to the center of the floor. _His hand is trembling,_ she thought to herself. Looking round she saw all eyes were on them. Stannis turned and bowed to her. And then they began to dance.  
  
The King's motions were stiff and awkward, and he stepped on her feet several times. Each time, Cersei heard a titter of laughter ring through the hall--once, she thought she saw her father glaring after such an outburst. She wondered if he still felt he'd chosen wisely in this. When she looked into her husband's face, she saw he was as miserable about this as she was. _I wonder why he even bothered_ , she thought. _He is the King, after all_.  
  
As the song ended, one of Stannis' arms looped around her legs. With a sudden motion, he had lifted her up off the ground, and cradled her close to his chest. _Well_ , thought Cersei, as she dangled there awkwardly, _he is strong, I'll grant him that_. As her hand pressed to his chest, she felt his heart beating like a smith's hammer. "My lords and ladies--honored sers," Stannis stated, "I feel it is time for my wife and I to retire for the evening."   
  
There were numerous hoots and catcalls to this, as the band began to play 'Oh Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass' and one man even shouted out "Show us her tits!" Cersei glared out at the crowd. _If I ever learn who said that..._ , she thought to herself, but then shut her eyes. If she ever learnt, she would do nothing, because there would be nothing that she could do. And so she listened to the cries and shouts as her husband carried her away from the chamber, and up the stairs. Eventually, they reached the bedchamber that had been set aside for them, by which time the noise from the revels down below had faded into a dull hum. Stannis deposited her on the bed, and then shut the door.   
  
"My... apologies," said the King quietly. "I... had little desire for a bedding, and... little taste for the feast. I am sorry if I cut short your enjoyment of this night."  
  
Cersei took a deep breath. "You cannot cut short something that doesn't exist, Your Grace." She sat up and began to fiddle with her dress. _The stupid maids tied it all wrong,_ she thought, biting her lip in frustration. _It won't come loose._  
  
Stannis sat down on the bed, and looked at her with his dark blue eyes. "My lady... I... I know I am... not what you expected for a husband. Or what the realm expected for a king. Robert was the one born to rule, and to marry well, the one with a gift for making... people love him." He shook his head. "I never wanted all this. But I will swear to you that I shall do my duty by you."  
  
 _Why is he telling me this?_ thought Cersei, as she managed to get her dress untied. "I cannot help but be offended, Your Grace," she said softly, "that you apparently do not want to be married to me."  
  
"That is not what I meant," said Stannis, shifting awkwardly. "You are... you are very fair..."  
  
 _If the room were brighter, I wouldn't be surprised to see you blushing like a boy, Your Grace_. She couldn't help but think of Jaime, so much bolder than this strange man she was now tied to. _If he were here right now, he would not be talking to me like this_. She smiled at that happy thought, and then turned to the business at hand. "Your Grace," she said, as her dress fell free, "you'll find you're not the only one here who can do their duty. Now come to bed."


	13. The Foul-Smelling Flower

**THE FOUL-SMELLING FLOWER**  
  
There was a resounding crack as Ser Ulwyck Uller of Hellholt and Ser Dezial Dalt of Lemonwood met on the tourney field, their lances breaking on each others' shield. A great cry rose from the commons at this display of martial prowess, while young Viserys clapped his hands and cheered enthusiastically. _**King** Viserys_ , thought Garth. _I must think of him as king_.  
  
"A fine sport, no?" said Prince Oberyn Martell, glancing at the seneschal.  
  
"I am the wrong man to ask," stated Garth quietly. "Never much skill or time for tourneys. Can't even ride a horse these days, I'm afraid." He patted his belly. "I blame my taste for all that fine Dornish food that comes up from the Marches."  
  
Martell smiled, and sipped his wine. "Well, at least I can say that you have fine taste in dining." The Prince turned to Viserys. "What think you of this, Your Grace?"  
  
"It's wonderful!" said the little king, eyes glued to the match. He glanced at his protector Ser Oswell Whent. "Look--look! They're going again!"  
  
"Indeed, Your Grace," muttered the Kingsguard member softly.  
  
Prince Oberyn smiled at the Ser Oswell. "So, Ser Oswell, who do you favor for the victory?"  
  
"It's hard to tell," said the Kingsguard. "Ser Dezial has a firmer seat, methinks, but Ser Ulwyck wields a fiercer lance."  
  
Oberyn gave a deft nod. "Indeed. Well put, Ser." He took a long swallow of his wine. "I think it will be Uller myself. The young knight of Lemonwood has much potential, but he is still a boy. Ser Ulwyck... is a man."  
  
A moment later the Prince's words were proven when Ser Dezial was toppled from his steed, landing with a thud on the ground. The young knight attempted to rise, but then fell back and lay still. As the wardens declared Ser Uller's victory, and his squires carried Ser Dezial to the maesters, the Dornish knight saluted the young king. "For the honor of King Viserys!" declared Uller.  
  
Viserys applauded and laughed. "Oh, I like him! I like him! May I put him on the Kingsguard?" Garth couldn't help but think of King Aenys, feasting and feteing as the realm his father conquered fell apart around him. _Unfair, Garth, unfair. He is a boy, and this is all little more than a merry game to him, dead father or no_.  
  
"If he continues to fight as he has, Your Grace, then yes." Prince Oberyn smiled. "I must state that he would be an excellent choice. Ulwyck burns to avenge your slain father."  
  
Garth frowned to himself. They misgave him, all these fiery young followers that had come with the Red Viper--and as opposed to his goodnephew Ser Jon Fossoway, who'd been ranting about it to him the other night, it was not because they were Dornishmen. T _hough I will not deny that adds another wrinkle. How many fights have their been in the Reach's taverns since they came? More than the entire war so far, that I know for a fact..._

But no--at heart Garth mistrusted them because it seemed that Prince Oberyn had stripped Dorne of its wildest youngest knights and come to fight a personal mission of vengeance. _We cannot win this war. He must know this. All we can do is try not to lose too badly, so that our Houses can reach an honorable settlement. But he brings these mad young men here--men who think a war can be won with piss and vinegar, and nothing else..._  
  
Another cheer came from the crowd, as Ser Garth "Greysteel" Hightower took to the field against Ser Myles Manwoody. _But there's the problem_ , thought Garth Tyrell. The Hightowers, the Ashfords, the Caswells, the Ambroses--half the Houses in Highgarden seem inflicted with the same madness. _My nephew lost a fair portion of the Reach's strength outside of Storm's End, and yet people seem to think we'll win_. The crowd went wild as Greysteel easily knocked Ser Myles from his horse. _Dreams of honor and glory. They make men mad._  
  
"It is a pity your goodsister cannot be here," stated Prince Oberyn.  
  
"I fear the Lady Olenna is... ill-disposed at the moment," noted Garth Tyrell. He smiled to himself, as he recalled the Queen of Thorns words on the subject. "Tell them the crack of lances give me headaches," she'd said, something he'd decided not to share. He glanced down to the field, where Lord Commander Hightower continued to watch the match in his gleaming white armor. Garth wondered if he was proud to see his grandnephew's skill. _Likely, but I doubt he'll show it. Nor show Greysteel any favor that he does not earn. An honorable man, the Lord Commander. Who will get many people killed, if he has his way._


	14. The Old Falcon

**THE OLD FALCON**  
  
"...And Lord Estermont sends his regrets," stated Lord Walter Whent quietly, "but the storm on the Narrow Sea badly damaged the isle's ships. He still is not able to reach us."   
  
Jon Arryn rubbed his temples. "It has been months since that storm. And he cannot find a single ship and come to King's Landing?"  
  
Lord Whent shrugged, his dark eyes apologetic. "Not a secure one, I'm afraid." Once again, Jon realized that he missed Hoster Tully. His brother Brynden had gone to Tumbleton to secure it from the Dragon supporters, three weeks ago. Lord Walter Whent had arrived from the Riverlands shortly thereafter. Hoster's goodbrother had buried two sons in what men were starting to call the War of the Dragons and the Stags. While no one doubted Lord Whent's commitment, there were few who'd call him an overly forceful man.   
  
"If he were not the King's grandfather," said Kevan, "I'd think he was trying very hard to avoid committing to the Stag's cause..."  
  
"He's lost more kin than Robert in this," stated Jon. Privately, he wondered. Lord Baelor Estermont had never been one of the most daring of lords, grand name aside, and if Robert could be believed, Stannis was not the favorite among his grandchildren. The man had children, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren of his own line to consider, and as Robert used to say, his sigil being a turtle was no mistake.   
  
"That still does not excuse his tardiness," stated Tywin Lannister, as he strode into the room, Grand Maester Pycelle tottering in after him. "In the time that Estermont has written his latest complaining message, His Grace's pet smuggler has already managed to produce six ships from across the Narrow Sea. With more on the way." Tywin confidently took his seat at the table. "If Lord Estermont does not watch himself, he will become the first man to lose a seat at the Small Council before he ever took it."  
  
"Third, my lord," said Grand Maester Pycelle. "The first would be Lord Stokeworth in the reign of Daeron II. He was sent to be the new Master of Coins, but he had a brother who fought under the Black Dragon, so Bloodraven persuaded the council to choose someone a little more steady. The second..."  
  
"Is irrelevant to our present discussion," said Tywin, glaring at the Grand Maester. He dropped a sealed envelope upon the table. "In here are King Stannis' present appointments to the Small Council." Jon Arryn carefully picked up the envelope. "They are, I believe, Lord Estermont to Master of Ships, Lord Whent to Master of Coins, Lord Arryn to Master of Laws, and myself as Hand to the King."   
  
Arryn nodded to himself as he read Stannis' brusque missive. _When Robert told me how stiff his younger brother was, I always thought he exaggerated_. Tywin's Handship had been one of the conditions to his giving the Stags control of King's Landing, along with the marriage of his daughter to Stannis. While the King had consented, the rather curt tone of his letter made it clear he didn't like it. _Still, who is happy with it aside from the Lannisters?_ thought Arryn, as he glanced at the scowling form of the Lord of Casterly Rock.  _And perhaps not even them_...  
  
Ser Kevan regarded his brother with a smile. "How is dear little Cersei?" he asked.  
  
"As well as can be expected," replied Tywin curtly. "Now, Ser Kevan, your letter said you have a report from Silverhill?"  
  
Jon Arryn frowned as Ser Kevan gave a nod. _So he has been writing to his brother of our meetings--and the Seven knows what else--this entire time._ "Ser Stafford has received a raven from Lord Alester Florent. He is Lord Tarly's goodfather, and his brother Ser Axell is serving with him. He believes that he may be able to get Lord Tarly to consider terms. Further, his brother believes he might be able to engineer the surrender of Goldengrove."  
  
Jon Arryn idly tapped the table. _A great victory, if they can get it._ Though its Lord remained in the custody of the Stags, Goldengrove had remained in the Reach's hands, with Lord Beesbury using it as a base as he hemmed in the Lannister troops to the north. T _his war has not been kind to the glory of Westerland arms, has it?_ thought Jon. _Even if this succeeds, what will men say but the men of the Rock only win battles through betrayal._  
  
"Lord Arryn," said Tywin suddenly. "His Grace will be arriving in King's Landing shortly for his blessing and anointment. He wishes to have a secure city when he enters. As Master of Laws, this will be your duty."  
  
"I believe I can manage it, Lord Hand," said Arryn quietly. "I have so far, after all. Why, men even smile when they see warriors of the Vale go past." _Because they aren't Lannisters,_ he thought to himself.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt obligated to name the Baratheon brothers' (possibly) unnamed grandfather here, the Estermont family tree being one of the greatest muddles in the ASOIAF universe. That stated, don't expect much in the way of facetime from Lord Baelor Estermont, one of Westeros' foremost masters of procrastination.


	15. The Butcher's Son

**THE BUTCHER'S SON**  
  
Morros' feet dug into his sides as the boy watched the King and Queen climb the stairs of Baelor's Great Sept from the vantage point of his father's shoulders. Janos Slynt winced slightly, then smiled to himself and reached up to pat his boy on the head. _Not every day a boy gets to see history, after all_.   
  
"She's pretty!" whispered Morros.  
  
Janos nodded, but couldn't help but wonder what his father would say about that. He could almost hear Olyvar Slynt in his mind. _"Fair enough, fair enough, but not a candle on dear Queen Rhaella. Such grace, such charm, such fine manners..."_ Janos sighed to himself. _And then he would tell of the time she thanked him for a fine cut of lamb he'd served her. "Now--that is true royalty!"_   
  
Of course, Olyvar wouldn't tell such tales any longer. His father had never been overly fond of the Hand-- _"Thinks he's better than all others who walk this great green earth, that one does"_ \--but somehow Janos didn't think even Olyvar would imagine he'd be cut down by a Lannister soldier one night. _Dark times. Dark times. But... perhaps they're over now, eh?_  
  
The High Septon continued to drone on, demonstrating his aptly-earned nickname of 'the longwinded one'. Janos wondered if King Stannis was tired of kneeling before the man. _He's scowling--but then, he's been scowling since the ceremony began._ Janos frowned. It felt... wrong, not having a Targaryen for a king. They--they were the blood of the Dragon, the descendants of lost Valyria, more than men--almost gods. Even mad old Aerys had had a bit of that luster to him. Stannis Baratheon was... just a man. An impressive looking man, yes, but still a man. It was hard to believe he could sit on the Iron Throne for long.   
  
_And maybe he won't. Little Viserys is still out there. They say the Dragons have won every battle since Storm's End._ Though Janos had to admit, most of them didn't sound like particularly impressive battles.  
  
The High Septon finally stopped talking and the King and Queen rose. The people applauded. As he looked at Queen Cersei, Janos wondered if she knew what her father had done here. All the people who'd died... _They cleaved his head in. For no real reason at all. Him, who'd served their own master the finest meat in King's Landing._ Janos debated if he should hurry back to the shop. Not that he could keep running it. He didn't have the hands. Oh, they were strong enough, but... his father had it. The skill. Olyvar Slynt liked to boast he could kill a steer in a blow, then cut its meat so fine you could see through the slices. Janos didn't have that. _They call a man who hacks away at things a butcher. Well, yeah, they can be. If they're shit at it._ Janos didn't want to be a shit butcher, who got by selling scraps to the pot shops. _I'll sell the shop. Maybe... maybe buy a commission in the gold cloaks. They're hiring. They almost always are. I need money. Regular money. Got a son, a daughter, and a babe on the way. It don't come free. Like grandpa used to say--every man must serve..._  
  
"Papa--everyone's leaving!" said Morros.   
  
Janos turned away. "You want to walk the way home?" he asked.  
  
"Yes, yes," said Morros. "I'm a big boy! I can walk!"  
  
Janos chuckled to himself, and then knelt down. Morros slipped off with a merry squeal, then took his father's hand as they prepared to head back. _And that's what I serve. Him. He won't go without if I can help it. My father didn't fail me--and I won't fail him._  
  
"The new king is tall! Much taller than the last one!" said Morros. "Does that mean he'll rule longer?"  
  
"If the Seven will it, Morros," answered Janos Slynt with a smile. "If the Seven will it."


	16. Eddard

**EDDARD**  
  
His Grace Stannis Baratheon sat upon the Iron Throne clad in the black and gold of his house, with an antlered crown upon his head, his expression wary and--it had to be admitted--regal. Whatever doubts one might have about suitability tended to vanish--or at least, quiet--when you saw the man sitting on that chair made of swords. _I suppose Aegon the Conqueror built it for that reason_ , thought Eddard and shuddered slightly. Even if he came as an ally, the throne room of the Red Keep was not a comfortable place, with its shadows, and the skulls of dragons covering the walls. The fact that his father and elder brother had died horrifically here only added to his discomfort.   
  
Ned shook his head, as court was called into session. _That is done and past. The king who did it is dead, and a new king-- **this** king--sits in his place._   
  
Stannis leaned forward as the herald stopped talking. "There are many great matters to attend to, in this, my first court. It is my hope that in it, I will show the Seven Kingdoms what sort of king they have." He looked over the room. "Let Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard come forward."  
  
Eddard searched the crowd for the man many were already calling the Kingslayer. He stood amongst the Lannisters--his father the Hand, his uncles Kevan and Gerion, and most worryingly, his sister the Queen. Thoughts of plots and cliques entered Ned's head, and then vanished when he saw her eyes focused nervously on her twin. _She wishes to be with her brother now, and who can blame her?_ For a second, Lyanna's face flashed in his mind, and he wondered where his sister was.   
  
Jaime Lannister walked forward with a heavy tread, and knelt before the throne--Eddard was surprised how haggard he looked. It was almost enough to make him pity the man, as long as he didn't think of what he'd done. "Ser Jaime Lannister," said Stannis, "you killed the king you were sworn to protect, thus breaking your oath as a member of the Kingsguard." Jaime seemed to nod slightly at that. "I offer you this chance to take up the black, and live out the rest of your days protecting the realm as a member of the Night Watch."  
  
"No! No! You can't!" Cersei Lannister fell to the floor, her uncles swiftly rushing to her side. "I... he... you can't! You can't!" She broke down into incoherent sobs, as Gerion patted her lightly on the back.  
  
"Your Grace," said Jon Arryn, moving out of the crowd, "You have chosen me to be your Master of Laws, and as such I must point out the value of mercy..."  
  
Stannis regarded Arryn stoically. "I have offered him honorable service in the Night Watch. That would be a mercy for an _attempted_ regicide, much less a successful one." He shook his head. "Understand this, Lord Arryn--I will not have this man in my Kingsguard. He has sullied its oath, and must pay the price for that."  
  
As Cersei sobbed and her uncles tried to comfort her, Tywin Lannister stepped forward. "Your Grace--if I may speak not as your Hand, but merely as a father," he said, his expression hard, and his voice cold. "It is hard for me to see my son sent so far from me. Remove him from the Kingsguard--yes, I can see that, but surely that is disgrace enough..."  
  
"And it is hard for me to bring sorrow to my wife, your daughter," said Stannis, with perhaps the slightest tremble in his voice, "but so it stands. I am a King, and sometimes must do things that bring me sorrow." He stared at Tywin Lannister intently. "As for what you propose, many would argue that would be a reward, freeing him to inherit what he has forfeited by joining the Kingsguard."  
  
Tywin stared back at him, his hard green-gold eyes glaring into Stannis' hard blue ones. "Many might, Your Grace. Many might. It is up to you whether you heed their opinion." The pair stood there for a moment, eyes locked on each other, when a loud wail broke their concentration.  
  
"Don't send him away!" cried Cersei. She looked at her husband appealingly. "Please--he... my brother... I... I love him..." She sniffled. "Don't send him to the Wall!" Stannis bit his lip as he looked at her, as if struggling to find the words to say.  
  
Eddard felt sympathy well up in him, and stepped towards the Queen. "Your Grace," he said gently, "I understand your sorrow, but... to protect the realm as a member of the Night Watch is an honorable service. This we remember in the North. Your brother can free himself of the dishonor he has acquired in the service of the Iron Throne..."  
  
If Ned had hoped to comfort the weeping woman, the angry gaze she shot him suggested he had failed, by a significant margin. Eddard shifted, aware that all eyes were now on him... when something happened to take them off.  
  
"Your Grace," said Jaime firmly, "I accept the black." As Eddard watched, Cersei and Tywin both stared at the young knight in astonishment. Jaime shut his eyes. "What I did... I... Aerys.... I had reached a point where I felt to serve him by the Kingsguard oath meant to dishonor all others I'd ever sworn, as a knight and a man." As the court murmured around him, Jaime shook his head. "I... I may have been wrong to think that. I don't know. All I know is there is a stain on my soul that I have to clean, however it got there. And so I accept your offer. And I take the black. And I thank you, and I ask you..." He opened his eyes and looked at the king pleadingly. "I ask you and every one here to pray for me, if they can. Pray for me, to the old gods and the new. So that I can find forgiveness with them, if not with men. So that I can find peace."  
  



	17. The Old Falcon

**THE OLD FALCON**  
  
The Queen was ushered from the chamber weeping, her uncle Gerion taking her out. "Now, now," he said softly. "Now, now, sweet Cersei, just let all the sad out..."  
  
Jon Arryn watched the pair leave, suppressing an urge to scream the entire time. His eyes turned to King Stannis, who sat in the Iron Throne rigid as a statue. _The fool! The stubborn young fool! Does he want to throw away all we have accomplished?_ Tywin Lannister stood as rigid as the king and goodson he proclaimed to serve. _He will not forgive this,_ thought Jon. Ty _win Lannister broke with Aerys for giving Jaime the white--Seven alone know what he'll do to Stannis for giving the lad the black._  
  
Jon sighed. He could understand the feeling that what Jaime had done was beyond the pale--in truth it was--but the Stags couldn't afford to risk their entire alliance unraveling in the middle of this war. Despite their losses, the Reach and Dorne remained fresher than any of their rivals--save the Westerlands. And the Reach could field an army larger than most of the allies--again, save the Westerlands. Tywin Lannister's good feeling was imperative for the Stags to succeed--and Stannis had just forfeited that.  
  
As the court calmed, the King raised his voice again. "Let Ser Barristan Selmy come forward." Ser Selmy came out of the crowd, still heavily bandaged from the wounds he'd received on the Trident. "Ser Barristan, I wish you to go to your brothers of the Kingsguard in Highgarden and deliver this message. There is still time for them. They are honorable men, and true, and I give them credit for it. But if they continue to play kingmakers around this young boy, I will not be able to forgive them. To have served Aerys was one thing--to have crowned Viserys was another. If they bend the knee, and acknowledge me as rightful sovereign of these Seven Kingdoms, then they may resume their rightful places on my Kingsguard. If they continue to bear arms against me, I will count them traitors, and deal with them as such."  
  
There was an audible gasp in the court. Jon Arryn winced, and cursed Stannis' stubborn pride. _Heavens help the lad, what does he think he's doing? Does he think he can sully the honor of men like the White Bull and the Sword of Morning? It will be him the folk will judge for this, not them!_   
  
Ser Barristan, to his credit, accepted this charge with an easy grace. "Very well. And what of myself?"  
  
"I give you the same choice," said Stannis simply. "You may serve me, or you may pledge your sword to Viserys and treachery. It is entirely up to you, Ser."  
  
Barristan nodded, and then turned to leave. "Now... Ser Cortnay Penrose. Ser Mark Rysell. Ser Brynden Tully. Step forth." Jon Arryn watched as the three men knelt before the throne and spoke their oaths. _Well--good solid choices, men of some note, and some skill,_ he thought, _though not telling Tywin of this--it's another slap in the face._ As the oath ended, young Balon Swann handed them each a white cloak, and three men rose and took their places around the Iron Throne. "And now... Jon Arryn. Step forward."   
  
Jon Arryn blinked. This was... unexpected. Straightening himself, he walked forward. "Your Grace," he said.  
  
"You served me well as Master of Laws, and my brother well before then as an ally," said Stannis. _That would cheer me if there were more warmth in your voice, Your Grace._ "But I have a greater role in mind for you. In the past, the Targaryens gave a seat on their Small Council to a keeper of spies, a master of whispers. This I will not do--it was an unseemly custom, and it brought bad men into power. In its place, I revive an older title from another throne. Jon Arryn, I appoint you Master of the Great Seal, as the Storm Kings did before the Conquest. To you I grant sovereignty over my chancelleries and my emissaries. To you I grant the power to speak for me to the nations across the Narrow Sea."  
  
Jon stared a moment in dull shock. "Your Grace... you do me... great honor..." _Another slap in Tywin Lannister's face! This... this cuts the Hand in twain!_ He wondered if he dare refuse. One look at Stannis' face, and he knew he did not. "...And I shall try to live up to it."   
  
Stannis nodded. "Excellent. Take up the Great Seal." Balon Swann handed him it to him, a large medal depicting a crowned stag. _He will need a man of sense about him, a man who will cut through the feuds he seems determined to start,_ Jon thought as he stepped back. Stannis looked over the crowd. "Now--bring forth the Spider. Bring forth Varys, the spy."  
  
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. And then a little old man politely stepped forward. "Well... Your Grace... I... I tried to tell you... earlier... Lo... Varys... he wasn't in his cell, Your Grace."  
  
Stannis regarded the man. "What?"  
  
The old man gulped. "It... it was empty. Your Grace. The Spider's gone."


	18. The Knight of Hounds

**THE KNIGHT OF HOUNDS**  
  
This was a bad plan. Ser Tytos Clegane knew that. _Gods help me, you can smell treachery on the wind if you have the nose for it._ He looked up ahead, at Ser Stafford Lannister, and Ser Emmon Frey, and Ser Harys Swyft, the... bold leaders of this force, and shook his head. Knights, the same as him, but not all knights were equal. Ser Clegane had learned that through hard experience. They had no nose for it. They were laughing and joking with each other, minds already flush with an easy victory they counted as won before it even existed. They would not listen to him. They would not heed him. If he stepped forward to warn them once again, they would only laugh.   
  
He spurred his horse forward. A knight--a _true_ knight--does his duty, he reminded himself, no matter how onerous and unrewarding he may find it.  
  
Clegane rode unsteadily ahead. He had little skill as a rider--he had taken to it far too late, and never managed to acquire the gift. He could still recall Lord Tytos and Roger Reyne's laughter at watching him at the hunt. "Dear me, young Tytos, you ride like a farmer," Reyne had said. A smile came unbidden to Clegane's face. The men who had laughed at the boy had done so with affection. Not like the men who now laughed at the man grown.   
  
"Sers," he said softly, as he pulled up beside them. "A word if you please."  
  
Stafford Lannister turned, and regarded Tytos with a dull hostility. "More whining, Clegane?" he snorted. "Relax, you'll get your scraps." Harys Swyft let out a loud laugh at that, as he had every time that Ser Stafford had used that joke when talking to Tytos.   
  
"Sers, I am still uncertain about this... _surrender_ we are going to," stated Clegane calmly. _At night. In the woods. By the Crone, you dunces, do I have to draw you a map?_ "Perhaps--just perhaps, mind you--it would be wise to send me and a few others ahead to scout..."  
  
"Are you the Knight of Hounds, Clegane, or the Knight of Pups?" asked Ser Emmon, eliciting another loud laugh from Ser Harys who once again apparently found this witticism just as amusing now as he had the first time it had been used. "Frighting at nothing!"  
  
"He wouldn't be the only one, if we sent this lummox galumphing up ahead," snorted Ser Stafford. "Ser Axel would probably flee." He peered at Ser Clegane with all the intensity that a truly stupid man absolutely convinced of his brilliance was capable of. "He's giving us Goldengrove, Clegane. Goldengrove. He's got the men there, waiting for us. All set up for us. And you think I shouldn't show him a little trust." He shook his head. "Not very knightly." Frey and Swyft shared a snicker at that. "Now--anything else you want to say?"  
  
Tytos Clegane considered telling Stafford that he was an ass and was about to get a good many men killed in what would likely go down in Westerosi history as one of the more major military blunders, but decided it would do little good. So instead he shook his head, and rode away. _Well, he cannot say I didn't warn him. Or rather, he can, but he'll be lying when he says it._ Tytos sighed. Ser Stafford was a dunce of the first order, who held his post because Tywin Lannister trusted family above all. That wasn't a problem when it was a solid man like Ser Kevan Lannister--but his goodbrother was a fool. Oh, he'd follow orders, if they were set before him in painstaking detail, but most of the time, that was all he would do. Which made him--most of the time--close to Tywin's vision of a perfect subordinate, Clegane imagined. The problem really began on those rare occasions when Stafford got an idea. Stafford's ideas all resembled one another-- they were all supposed to win Stafford a great deal of glory, they were never any good, they inevitably got men killed, and finally, when they were finished, Stafford would have a chat with Tywin, and then find himself on some duty more in line with his abilities, like supervising latrine digging. And then Lord Tywin would need a loyal subordinate for some minor task, Ser Kevan would be busy somewhere else, and so Ser Stafford would set forth with painstaking instructions from his goodbrother on what to do that he would follow exactly, Lord Tywin would begin to dismiss the last debacle as a fluke, and the whole merry dance would begin again...  
  
It was a sad thing, what Lannister arms had fallen to. Clegane remembered brighter days, days when the knights of the Rock were considered as glorious as the knights of the Reach, when Roger Reyne the Red Lion had songs sung about him other than _The Rains of Castamere_ , when men had loved the Lord of Casterly Rock, not feared him, and when folk said 'a Lannister pays his debts' with a smile, not a shudder.   
  
_I'm becoming an old man_ , he thought. _An old man, complaining about how everything was so much better and brighter when he was a boy_. But it had been, for him, at the very least, for all the robber knights and minor rebels people talked of when they spoke of Lord Tytos' rule. He remembered the War of Ninepenny Kings. "A promising lad," Reyne had called him, and Gods, had he proved that promise then. He had thought, afterwards, that the laughter would be silenced forever, that he had at last put 'Tytos the dog boy' behind him. _The Seven scourge us for our folly and our pride_ , he thought. _They always do. That was when it all turned foul for us, and heavens help me, every one of us should have seen it coming_.   
  
A call from up ahead brought Clegane back to the present. "Is... that you, Ser Stafford?" Tytos winced. D _amnable fool! Keep your mind where you are when you're in battle!_ He looked ahead to see... a man on a horse... who sat in a very... stiff way...  
  
"Yes, Ser Axel! It's me!" boomed out Ser Stafford. "I've brought those men here, just as you said!"   
  
_They've tied him to his horse, you idiot!_ Tytos considered saying that, but decided against it, as it would almost certainly get him an arrow from whatever archers were hidden in the trees. Instead he shifted in his saddle and prepared to dismount. That was the one thing he could do well on a horse, and it had saved his life more times than he could count.   
  
"Very... very good... Ser Stafford..." said Ser Axel, his voice breaking. "If... if you will wait just a moment I will..." And that was when the archers fired.  
  
Ser Stafford had been standing very prominently in front, and been talking in his loud and booming voice, and so he managed to gather many shots himself. But there were still arrows enough for many of the men who'd followed him out into what he'd assured them was going to be a quick and simple victory. Ser Tytos listened to them sailing overhead, as he readied his sword, and prayed to the Seven that a horse or a panicked man didn't trample him where he lay. They must have been listening that night--none did.  
  
The first part was over quickly, as such ambushes generally were, and then the men came out of the woods, with spears and swords to round up captives, and kill any men who tried to resist. Clegane heard Harys Swyft and Emmon Frey loudly and piteously surrendering. A man came near him. Ser Tytos began, silently, to count. Another man joined the first. And then a third. He heard a whistle. "Look at that! Is that Qohorik-made, ya reckon?" The third man leaned towards him.  
  
He took a stab to the belly as Tytos leapt to his feet. "CLEGANE! CLEGANE!" he shouted as he finished off the man's companions. _They have treated us with dishonor,_ he reminded himself, _and it is right and proper to pay them with their own coin_. He began to rush towards the woods. "To me, men of the Westerlands! To me! CLEGANE! CLEGANE!" Men tried to stop his progress, but they were too slow. They almost always were when they faced him in battle, slow and amazed he could move so fast. A glance behind showed him that there were men following him, and not men of the Reach--these were Westerland colors, the colors of fellow Lannister bannermen. _I've done my duty. I've done as I should. Some of us are getting out of this folly free and alive._   
  
Fewer men were trying to get in front of him now, likely because they saw what kept happening to the men who did. "I say, Ser!" A mounted knight rode before him, the blazon of House Crane on his shield. "Surrender at once! You've--" Clegane struck a massive blow on the man's side, and watched him topple from his saddle. The man landed with a crash, which panicked his horse. Tytos watched it gallop away, the man being dragged behind it, one foot still in the stirrup. _Not a good dismount_ , he thought to himself, then chid himself for making light of the fellow's fate. _He was a man such as you are, a brave man, doing his duty_... He heard another horse snort and pivoted around.  
  
"I YIELD, SER!" screamed the young squire on the palfrey. The boy leapt rather awkwardly off the horse and knelt on the ground. "I yield! I yield! It was Ser Crane's idea! Ser Crane! Him you just..." The boy gulped and looked up at Clegane desperately. "He said... he said a man on horseback overmatched a man on foot..."  
  
"That depends on the two men, I find," said Tytos softly. He looked around. They were farther from the ambush site then he'd realized, but still closer than he liked. He glanced at his followers, and began to count. "Anyone need a horse?" A man in the colors of House Kenning came forward, limping somewhat. Tytos helped him on.   
  
"What of the boy?" came a voice.   
  
"He has yielded to me, and is my sworn prisoner," stated Clegane. He looked at the squire, a round-faced, rather harmless-looking lad. "Your name, boy?"  
  
"Garrett Flowers, Ser," he stated. "One of the B... Bastards of Highgarden..." The boy gulped. "Ser."  
  
Tytos heard a dissatisfied murmur from the men, and small wonder. _Not much of a ransom from this one._ "We best be moving. We've won our freedom for the moment--but keeping it may prove harder." He turned towards the trees, and began to stride forward.  
  
"Are you going to leave him untied?" came that same very annoying voice.   
  
"Young Garrett has yielded to me, and I trust that he will abide by his honor in this matter," said Tytos. "If he does not, then all will know him as a liar and an oathbreaker. And if the Seven should ever see fit to bring me to battle against again in such a happening, I would treat him as such." Garrett quivered so much at that, Clegane almost felt guilty.   
  
"So you'll let him walk untied all the way back to camp?" said that same irritating person, who Tytos had at last identified.   
  
"No, Ser Alyn Stackspear, I shall not. I shall let him walk untied all the way back to Silverhill." Ser Tytos heard the cries of surprise, and sighed. "Think of it, men. Our camp, which lies at half-strength and is under the stalwart command of young Ser Cleos Frey?" He felt the uncomfortable realization steeling over them. "If Tarly had any hand in this--and he most certainly did--than our camp is now their camp. We march to Silverhill."  
  
They fell behind him after that. A young man--practically a boy, on further inspection--in the colors of House Marbrand glanced at him. "So you think we can make it there?"   
  
Tytos nodded. "We have a fair chance. I doubt they'll be breaking themselves for a handful of men. And it's been a mild winter so far, on the whole." He shrugged. "And of course, there's the horse. If it comes to that--well, they are surprisingly good eating, I find."  
  
He thought he saw young Garrett quiver at that.


	19. Cersei

**CERSEI**  
  
The Queen stared at the blood orange before her, and frowned. She looked across the table at her husband, who continued to nervously watch her. _Some men send flowers,_ she thought. _He sends me oranges for breakfast._  
  
"Are you... are you hungry, Cersei?" asked Stannis, quietly.  
  
"I'm fine," she stated flatly.  
  
"If you want, I could have them send your food back," he continued.  
  
"I'm fine." Cersei idly fiddled with her fork, and looked at him again. She hated him. It would have been bad, what he had done to Jaime, but what he had done before then made it worse. On the trip up to King's Landing after their marriage, Stannis had been... pleasant in a shy, stiff, infinitely awkward way. It had been almost endearing, and Cersei had started to imagine that marriage to the King might prove bearable--even somewhat enjoyable.  
  
And then he'd done... _that_ to Jaime. Cersei held back a tear as she chewed her orange. _I can never forgive him that. **Never**._   
  
"They tell me it may be a while before we have oranges in King's Landing again," said Stannis. "Dorne's declared for Viserys." Her husband's always present frown seemed to deepen. "Pity."  
  
Cersei fidgeted in her chair. "I... was unaware you were so fond of oranges."  
  
"I'm not," said Stannis. "But I am fond of peace. Dorne held off the rest of the Seven Kingdoms by themselves for generations. With Highgarden to back them..." He scowled, and ground his teeth.  
  
"A pity you don't have dragons, then," she said quietly.  
  
"They didn't help the Targaryens," said her husband. "Balerion the Black Dread could not make the Dornishmen surrender. It is not a pleasant thing to know you must prove yourself more terrible than a dragon who could swallow a mounted knight whole."  
  
 _You are well on your way to that,_ thought Cersei, barely suppressing a scowl. Suddenly, it occurred to her--here was the opening she needed. She forced herself to smile. "Well, my husband, it seems to me you are in need of every sword you can..."  
  
Stannis turned his piercing dark blue eyes on her, and stared for a moment. "Cersei, my dear, you are my wife, and I... hold you in some regard. But as my wife, I ask you to treat with me as I would treat with you." He shook his head. "I am not a man given to intrigues and flattery. I am simple and direct in my speech. So if you would ask something of me... ask it. Do not imply it."  
  
Cersei stared at him a moment, and bit her lip. "I... pardon my brother, Your Grace. Let Jaime go home."  
  
Stannis regarded her simply. "No. I cannot."  
  
"You... cannot?" snapped Cersei. "No, you _will_ not!" She pointed at Stannis accusingly. "You... you are the King! You can do as you like! You could pardon him in a second!"  
  
"The man your brother killed did as he liked," said Stannis quietly. "You see where that got him." He folded his hands before him, and lay them quietly on the table. "I do not resent the fact that you love your brother, Cersei, and that you wish him well. And if it were simply a matter of your happiness, he would be free. But it is not. You do not seem to appreciate the enormity of Jaime's actions." Stannis took a deep breath. "You spoke earlier of my needing swords. Ser Brynden Tully. Ser Cortnay Penrose. Ser Mark Rysell. These are all talented warriors. The Blackfish fought with honor beside Barristan the Bold. Ser Cortnay and Ser Mark  both proved themselves fighting under Robert--Ser Mark even saved my life at Storm's End. And not one of these men would sit on my Kingsguard if your brother had remained. The Blackfish told me himself that he would not serve with the man who had dishonored the greatest oath he had ever sworn, in the vilest way imaginable." He leaned forward. "That is what your brother did, Cersei. And if my word as a king is to have any meaning, he must be punished for it."  
  
"But... but it was _Aerys_!" said Cersei. "He... would have killed your brother! And... and Father!"   
  
Stannis nodded. "Yes. He was a bad man, and a bad king, and I feel that he deserved to die. But he was still a king, and your brother still swore an oath to protect him with his life, and serve him with his death, if it became necessary."   
  
Cersei sniffled. _It is like... arguing with a wall.._. "You... you could just... release him... from the Kingsguard..." she said.  
And let him go on to inherit Casterly Rock," said Stannis with a nod. "And men would say of me 'There is King Stannis. He said he would rule with justice, but his   
"wife ruled him with her charms'. And they would say of Jaime, 'There is the Kingslayer, who broke his oath, and escaped justice, because his sister is the Queen'. Tell me, Cersei, do you think your brother would enjoy being the subject of such whispers?"  
  
Cersei stared down at her breakfast, holding back tears. Useless. _It's all been useless. He's just like Father... you cannot change his mind on anything... He tears whatever you say apart... he has already torn it apart before you even say it..._ She suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder and flinched. She turned to see her husband standing over, his face miserable.  
  
"Cersei... Cersei, this does not give me joy." He looked away from her. "I... if there is any way I... can make this up for you... I would do it. He... he is your brother. Your twin. I cannot imagine how close you two must be..."  
  
 _Thank goodness,_ thought Cersei to herself. "I know, Your Grace. I... I am sorry for losing my temper. He... As you say, he is my brother, my twin... and dear to me..." Stannis had started to rather awkwardly stroke his hair, a sensation Cersei had to admit was more pleasant than she had thought it might be. "I... if I could see him. One last time before he... goes to the Watch."  
  
"It might not be the last time," said Stannis quietly. "They do let men come south on business for them... you might see him again, and sooner than you thought. But... yes. Yes, my dear, I will let you two meet together. If you wish."  
  
"I do," said Cersei. She smiled to herself, pleased that something she had cobbled together at the last moment had proven so effective. _You are a clever man, my husband--but not quite as clever as you think._ She took another bite of orange, and began to plan some more. _I will show him you do not wrong the Lion_ , she decided.


	20. The Butcher's Son

**THE BUTCHER'S SON**  
  
Allar Deem sipped his drink, and tried to look sagacious--a difficult feat for a man with the all the wit the Seven gave pease. "You could sell this place off, and use the money go to the Free Cities. Set up shop as a merchant there."  
  
Janos glared at him. "Like the hells I could," he muttered. As often happened at times like this, he found himself wondering why he let Allar stay around and enjoy his food. "You have any idea what it's like there? Bastards would slit my throat the moment I started up in business..." He scowled to himself. "And that's assuming I could get enough money selling this place to do more than pay for passage."   
  
Allar sighed. "Right, right. Just trying to help. Don't have to bite my head off." Janos rolled his eyes. Allar had been something of a hanger-on of his for years. They were both the sons of men in trade who'd lacked the talent necessary to take up the trade themselves--but while Janos at least had enough of a head for figures to help his father run the business, Allar had proven an utter disappointment to Mollaro Deem, who was often heard noting in taverns that he was pleased he had three other sons who knew how to make barrels.   
  
"Pardon me," came an accented voice from the doorway. "Is this as it says, a place where a man from Essos may enjoy hospitality?"  
  
Janos and Allar turned to see the fattest man they had ever seen in their lives standing in the doorway of the Slynt butcher shop, a great blonde-bearded sphere clad in fine silks. "What makes you say that?" said Allar, standing to his full height, and crossing his arms in an imposing manner. It occurred to Janos this was why he kept Allar as a friend. The man was incredibly good to have backing you in a fight.  
  
"It is right on the sign," said the fat man, stepping confidently into the shop. A servant--a nondescript man in leathers--followed him in, silently. "In Valyrian. 'Come, friend, enjoy what I offer'."  
  
Janos, who'd often wondered what the strange letters his grandfather had had painted on his shop's sign meant, stood up. "Well, never let it be said a Slynt's a liar," stated Janos. "Take a seat..."  
  
"Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos" said the fat man, as he did just that. Janos felt a sudden wave of sympathy for that poor stool, which was now being forced to do more than it had ever done in its many long years in this shop. "Slynt? Any relation to the Slynts of Volantis?"  
  
"Not by blood," said Janos quietly. "Janos Slynt, at your service, Magister."  
  
Allar managed a stiff bow. "And Allar Deem."  
  
Illyrio smiled to himself. "Janos... Allar... these are Essosi names..."  
  
"They are not," said Allar with a scowl.  
  
Janos nodded. "He's right. They are Westerosi names." Janos leaned forward and looked Illyrio pointedly in the eye. "Because we are Westerosi."  
  
The magister nodded and gave a subtle smile. "Then I stand corrected." He gave a shrug. "You would not happen to have some food, would you? As it so happens, I am famished, hard as it is to believe."  
  
"I can offer you sausage," said Janos. "And a cup of ale."  
  
"I thank you," said Illyrio. He smiled as the food was set before him. "My apologies for imposing on your hospitality. But you, see my business in this city has been, alas, horribly protracted, from my viewpoint. I was staying on my finest ship, picking up a shipment of your golden Arbor wine, when suddenly your King said that my finest ship was now his finest ship." He chuckled. "That ship, and several more. And so, now I look for shelter. But it is proving difficult, for your king has made the ships of many others his ships, and they have taken lodgings in this city before I have."  
  
Janos rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I have some spare rooms in my house..."  
  
Illyrio raised an eyebrow significantly. "Indeed? Well, if I could use them, you would be amply repaid..."  
  
"They may prove a bit humble for a Magister of Pentos," said Janos.   
  
"I suspect I've stayed in worse, Master Slynt," answered Illyrio, with a smile.


	21. Eddard

**EDDARD**  
  
Balon Swann guided the Lord of the North in silence to the King's Solar. Eddard considered asking after the lad's health, or the well-being of his family, but decided against it. Young Swann clearly took his duties as the King's squire seriously, and besides, his family might be a sore spot. His father had fallen back to Stonehelm after the Battle of the Bells, and remained there, "marshaling his forces" even as Mace Tyrell had stood outside Storm's End and the King-to-be ate rats. Young Balon was as much a promise of future good behavior as he was... an honored guest.   
  
"Beware dragons! Beware!" shouted a youthful voice, its owner swiftly appearing. Young Renly Baratheon rushed around the corner, a swath of rich green cloth tied over his eyes, and a large stick in his hands. "I am Symeon Star-Eyes, come to slay you!" Eddard and Balon had to dart out of the way as the young boy dashed by. After he passed, an older man--a Maester, Ned realized by the Chain--followed. "My pardons, sirs," he stated, with a slight bow, before returning to his chase. "Renly! Renly! Do be careful!"  
  
 _If something were to happen, that boy would be the next king,_ Ned thought to himself, with a slight shudder. A foolish thing to think--but then, with Robert taken from them so quickly, it was impossible not to think it. _And if I am thinking it--who else might be?_ , he considered.  
  
He was quite glad when they reached the King's Solar, and Balon opened the door. "Lord Stark," said the King, standing behind his breakfast table. "I heard you wished to speak to me." Stannis was dressed in what Eddard was learning to see as his typical style, plainly and precisely, and even though it was early in the day, the darkish grey shadow of whiskers was already present on his chin. _If I did not know better, I'd imagine Robert had been the younger sibling_ , Ned thought to himself.  
  
"Indeed, Your Grace," began Eddard. Stannis' eyes remained fixed on him in a manner that Eddard could not help but find disconcerting; he shifted his gaze slightly to the left, and realized, with a certain mild sense of surprise, that the Queen was seated there. Cersei Lannister sat there hunched over her orange, looking ever so miserable. As his eyes lighted on her, she looked up at him, and her green eyes flashed with such intense anger at him that he returned his gaze to Stannis.   
  
"I... I have a simple request to make of you, my king," began Eddard doing his best to keep calm. "I have but recently become Lord of the North, and I have spent all that time at war, Your Grace. I have a land that do not know me, a wife that doesn't know me, a son, newly-born, that does not know me..." The words were coming faster now--so fast he almost worried he'd overstep himself, but if the King were offended by anything he said, he didn't show it. "I... wish to go home, Your Grace. That my land may know me, and I it, and that I may bring order and justice there, in your name."  
  
Stannis' face remained impassive throughout this, and when Ned was finished he turned quietly, and looked out the window. "You will wish to take your men with you, I imagine," he stated flatly.  
  
"I... I would leave as many as you would need, Your Grace," began Ned, hesitantly, "but many of them... my lords, like myself, have business in the North that must be tended to."  
  
"Homes and lands and wives," snapped the Queen with a surprising vehemence. "Things we here in the South have _no_ knowledge of..."  
  
Stannis turned and raised a hand, and Cersei quieted, returning to glaring angrily at her orange. "You have my permission, Lord Stark," said the King in a quiet, cold voice. "Speak with your bannermen to see what can be left here under my command, and when you have done that, return to the North, with my blessing." The King's face remained a blank slate as he spoke, and his blue eyes continued to stare at Eddard in a manner that made Ned feel slightly uncomfortable. "I would not have it said that I kept your people fighting here in the South, while letting the North fall to ruin. Return, and bring order to your lands."   
  
Eddard bowed. "I thank you, Your Grace."  
  
Stannis gave the slightest of nods. "And there is one other thing. Ser Jaime Lannister is to join the Night's Watch. I wish you to take him with you, when you go. Along with some... other _recruits_."  
  
"It would be my honor, Your Grace," said Eddard, even as he imagined he felt the Queen's glare on him.  
  
Stannis regarded him coolly. "Robert always spoke of you with fondness," said the King. "It is my hope, Lord Stark, that I may count on your support in the days that come. This war will not be easy, will not be swift, and what follows after... will be hard." Stannis leaned forward, slightly. "I will need loyal service, in the days that follow."  
  
"I... You may trust in me," said Eddard. "Your Grace."  
  
Stannis nodded. "If that is all...," he noted quietly, but with a definite force.  
  
Eddard gave a nod of his own and then turned to leave the solar. As he left, he swore that he felt their gazes on him the entire time--the hot, angry gaze of the Queen, the cold, probing gaze of the King.  
  
But he told himself he was simply imagining this.


	22. The Black Bat in White

**THE BLACK BAT IN WHITE**  
  
Ser Oswell Whent stood in the chamber and watched the meeting of what he had dubbed 'the Not-So-Small Council'. Young... _King_ Viserys--he had to keep reminding himself the boy was king--sat in his seat, listening to those around him debate and discuss. The boy's large violet eyes were alert and ready, studying his councilors eagerly. _He's bright, that much one must admit,_ thought Oswell. _But then, so was his father in his youth, or so they say..._  
  
"I say we should move immediately!" declared Lord Monford Velaryon, pounding the table. The young Admiral of the Narrow Sea had demanded a seat on the Small Council when he'd arrived a few weeks ago, and since getting it, had lobbied incessantly for speedy action against the Stags. "My ships are plaguing Blackwater Bay and the Bay of Crabs even as we speak! With proper support, we can bring the war right TO King's Landing, and topple the Usurper!"  
  
Paxter Redwyne gave a snort. "Your ships are a bare handful, doing little more than acts of petty piracy. And likely to get wiped out as soon as Baratheon assembles a proper fleet." The Master of Ships turned to the young King. "Your Grace, my fleet is doing all it can--" Lord Velaryon laughed at that. Paxter scowled. "--within reason. Our strength must be conserved for the present." He stared at Monford pointedly. "What superiority we have at sea is a bare thing that can be shaken with a single storm."  
  
The Lord of Driftmark actually looked discomfited at that naked reference to the loss of most of his ships in the great storm, something Oswell rather enjoyed. Lord Monford was a proud young man, and also a hasty one, who discussed war as if he would personally lead a charge against the Red Keep, all from the safety of Highgarden. But the Velaryons were an old family, with ties to many of the Dragonstone houses. They had to be placated.  
  
"Your Grace," said a prominent member of another of those houses, Lord Ardrian Celtigar, standing to his feet. "This seems like a good time to mention ANOTHER place where we are weak, our finances." As the aged lord gave a withered smile, it struck Oswell as odd that this ugly old man came from the same Valyrian stock as the King and Lord Velaryon. _But then, one finds all sorts everywhere, doesn't one?_ He looked nothing like his brother Walter, and his family, the Whents of Harrenhal, after all. _I don't even follow the same king_...  
  
Celtigar peered at Viserys in what he no doubt considered a kindly way. "Now, Your Grace, the sad fact--as I have noted in the past--is that our finances are in a bad way. Your father's treasury, overflowing with coin, lies in the hands of the Stags, and you, the lawful King of these Seven Kingdoms are without a groat to call your own. I have labored mightily to remedy this but..."  
  
"...But Highgarden is rather uneasy with having to be taxed to the nines in addition to having to support several armies with its produce," stated Garth Tyrell from his seat. He let loose a massive belch. "Your pardon, lords," he noted, as he picked up a large leg of chicken and tore into it. "My natural gasses are in flux today," he continued, chewing noisily the entire time. A burst of flatulence followed this declaration. "Now then, Lord Celtigar, I understand your worries, but surely some reasonable compromise can be found. My dear goodsister fears that the Reach is being forced to shoulder much of the cost of this war by itself." The sentence was punctuated by another belch. "And many of our lords are... shall we say, hesitant to let you get your claws into their property?" Garth gave Ardrian a greasy grin.  
  
Celtigar glared at the fat man. "You--must I endure the constant japes of this burping, stinking mass of flesh?"  
  
"My goodness!" said Garth, bursting into laughter. "I must remember that one!" He shook his head. "'Mass of flesh'. Yes, yes, quite a good description of me." Picking up an oyster, he pried it open with a massive thumb, then slurped it down. "Understand, Lord Celtigar, I understand and sympathize with your difficulties. Why as my nephew's Lord Seneschal and steward, the times I had to come up with the money he demanded, never bothering to think of where it might come from..." Another chuckle burst from the fat man's lips. "But I must ask you to sympathize with my difficulties. Many in the Reach feel they are being unfairly burdened in this struggle. And now you ask to add another burden. You, a foreigner." Garth shook his head. "It is... troublesome..."  
  
His brother Gormon glared at him from across the table. "Some might find Highgarden's attitude troublesome." The Dragons' Grand Maester fidgeted in his seat, playing idly with his chain.  
  
"I'm well aware of that," stated Garth with a yawn. "But so our attitude stands, Grand Maester, and it can not be remedied by scowling at it."  
  
_No love lost between those two brothers,_ thought Oswell, watching the Grand Maester scowl at the Lord Steward. Gormon was as thin and ascetic-seeming as his brother was fat and luxurious, as blunt and serious as Garth was witty and devious. It was hard for two siblings so different to get along--and Oswell gathered there was another problem between the pair. Garth had been the one originally supposed to join the Maesters, but there'd been some scandal at the Citadel and Garth the Gross had been quietly expelled. While Gormon had done well for himself in the Citadel, one couldn't escape the feeling, looking at him, that he'd rather he'd been given a choice in the matter.  
  
"Now then, my friends," said Oberyn, from his seat beside the King's. "Let us not quarrel pointlessly amongst ourselves. The Lord Steward is simply doing his duty, and advising us on how things stand in the Reach. This is why he has a seat on the Small Council."  
  
There was a sound of footsteps outside the chamber, and then the doors opened. The White Bull entered, followed by the Hand. Oberyn rose to his feet. "Lord Commander," he said, softly. "Lord Tarly. It is good you were able to make it. I understand that you have good news from the front."  
  
Randyll Tarly nodded, regarding the assembled Small Council with a hard eye. "The Westerlands defenses are in chaos," he said quietly. "The way to the Rock is open to us. And with it, the way to victory."


	23. Gerion

**GERION**  
  
The wine he was drinking was a trifle thin, watered down more than he liked, and rather sour to boot. Gerion considered calling for a bit of honey, at the very least, to sweeten it, but decided against it. He doubted that the servants would hear him, over the sounds of Tywin's present venting of his wrath.   
  
"Does he imagine that he may heap coals upon me and that I will simply... _take it?_ ," declared Tywin in a slow fury, hand slapping hard on the table.   
  
Besides, Gerion didn't imagine there'd be any honey.  
  
"He is a young man, Tywin," said Kevan, his voice slightly strained. "A young man, just come into power. A certain... heedlessness of nicities is to be expected in these cases..."  
  
"I would not call this 'heedlessness'," said Tywin, eyes narrowing. "This is deliberate insult." Gerion watched as his brother took a deep breath. "Has he forgotten with who he is dealing?"  
  
"I doubt it," said Gerion. "You're definitely a Lannister, and as Kevan has a mustache and I have hair, that narrows his options down considerably."  
  
Tywin gave his youngest brother a withering glance that almost made him wonder if the witticism had been worth it. But then, Gerion was more or less used to such glances by now. Kevan was the loyal brother, Tygett the difficult brother who could be prove, on occasion, useful, but Gerion--Gerion was the pest, the parasite, the sponger. As Tywin regularly reminded him, if he had not been his brother, he'd have cast Gerion to the four winds. _And having said that to me, he still expects me to respect and love him._  
  
"We are discussing business, Gerion," said Tywin. "If you wish to trade quips, go to a brothel, and start plying the whores with coin and drink. I've no doubt half the ones in King's Landing have been feeling a pinch without you here to keep them in business."  
  
And somehow any question of the value of that jest was gone. "I don't call your bruised pride 'business', Tywin," replied Gerion. "And anyone who does is only humoring you." Kevan looked at his younger brother with mild reproach.  
  
Tywin merely snorted, and looked away. "I would expect the importance of family pride escapes completely a man who has none."   
  
The look on his eldest brother's face recalled the last cyvasse game that the pair had ever played to Gerion's mind. He looked at the table, and sipped his drink. "I have pride, brother. Not as much as you... but enough." He recalled Tygett's suggestion, when they'd last talked, of lighting out to Essos. :My sword, your gift with tongues--we'd make a fortune and a name even Tywin would have to respect.:  
  
The prospect seemed remarkably tempting at times like this.  
  
"We should not quarrel amongst ourselves," said Kevan quietly. "Tywin--Gerion meant nothing by what he said."   
  
"Oh, I meant something," said Gerion, "but not an insult. Not truly." He took a deep breath. "Tywin, yes, you helped make this young man king. But sadly for you--Stannis Baratheon knows _exactly_ what this means."  
  
Tywin stalked off towards the chamber's window. "No. No, he merely imagines he does. I served this kingdom as Hand while he was nothing more than an idle fancy of Lord Steffon's..."  
  
 _Ahh, yes,_ thought Gerion. _The good old days under your dear friend Aerys, when you didn't dare bring your wife to court for longer than a fortnight, amongst other things..._  
  
"Tywin--Gerion has the right of this," said Kevan. "Stannis may be a young man, but he is not the sort who will let himself be bullied by an elder man..."  
  
Tywin wheeled on Kevan, the rage on his face evident. "You say I am trying to bully the man? He... he has exiled my heir..."  
  
"No, he has exiled _Jaime_ , Tywin," said Gerion softly. "Your heir remains safe at Casterly Rock."  
  
"I do not count that... _thing_ my heir," snapped Tywin, striding angrily towards Gerion. "And that you would..."  
  
"Jaime was Kingsguard, Tywin," said Kevan stepping between the pair. "And he killed Aerys. Seven hells, we're fortunate he's being allowed to take the black. If we'd gotten anything more..." He bit his lip. "What do you imagine folk would say?"  
  
"What do I care what the sheep say?" seethed Tywin. " _He is my son_!"  
  
"And he is my nephew, Tywin," said Kevan, placing a hand on his elder brother's shoulder. "This sorrows me, the same as you. But I do not allow it to unhinge my reason. We are married to the Stags now--both in truth, and in saying--and if we tear ourselves loose at the moment, we will both be lost. Is that what you want? To smile at the thought of Stannis Baratheon going to his grave as the Targaryens put you in yours?"  
  
Tywin bowed his head. "So... you would have me meekly accept this insult instead?"  
  
"For now, yes," replied Kevan. "And then, when this war is done--then you remind King Stannis that a Lannister pays his debts."  
  
Tywin nodded. "Yes. Yes, you are right, Kevan. I was letting my anger... overrule my judgement. I am fortunate to have a brother such as you in these moments." He glanced at Gerion, frowning. "Most fortunate." As the pair watched, the Lord of Casterly Rock straightened himself, and left the chamber, without a word.  
  
Gerion waited for him to be gone before glancing at Kevan. "Sometimes I wonder if he realizes the rest of us Lannisters can have debts that need to be repaid."  
  
"He pays yours often enough," said Kevan sitting down beside his brother.   
  
Gerion gave a rueful nod. "True enough." He smiled at his brother. "You did well there."  
  
"I did the best I could," muttered Kevan. He shook his head. "If only... I wish Joanna were still here."  
  
Gerion gave Kevan's hand a pat. "We all do, Kevan."


	24. The Young Kraken

**THE YOUNG KRAKEN**  
  
A Drowned Man was speaking on the docks of Lordsport as Aeron and his elder brother Urri watched.  "...Storm is raging, oh, Ironborn!  The Dragon--the Dragon has already been cast to the shores of the sea!  The Drowned God speaks to his children of great tidings of change and tumult! Soon our history shall writ once again with blood!"  
  
Aeron found himself more interested in the man's features than his words, which were in truth, little different than most of his ilk since the war of the Dragons and the Stags had begun.  He was a pinch-faced individual with a high voice, this Drowned Man, with seaweed scattered through his thinning hair in a manner that struck the young Greyjoy as rather forced and artificial.  He was no Tarle the Thrice-Drowned, this one--Tarle with his booming voice, and his grim hatchet of a face.  When Tarle had spoken of the will of the Drowned God, of terrible visions of doom to come if the Ironborn did not return to the Old Way, one believed he saw what he spoke of.  But Tarle had spoken of the ghosts of Dagon Greyjoy and the Red Kraken rising from the oceans to strike down the weak, the cowardly, and the unworthy two weeks ago.  The next day he'd been found dead in the square, drowned for a fourth time--and this time drowned in truth--with his tongue ripped out, and his eyes torn out.  
  
The Drowned Men who remained were careful in their prophesyings, after that.  
  
"Has the Dragon REALLY been cast to the shores of the sea?" asked Aeron.  
  
"Close enough," said Urri.  "I heard Victarion speaking of it, last night.  The Little King holds nothing more than the Reach and Dorne.  The rest all swears loyalty to the Stag King."  
  
Aeron chuckled.  "They must be madder than most in the green lands, to be following a boy into battle."   
  
"Oh, the Little King doesn't lead them into battle," laughed Urrigon.  "He has grown men to do that for him.  No, he simply sits on his little throne, and looks all kingly, as they die on his behalf."    
  
Aeron joined his brother in his laughter.  "I bet they all shout 'For the brat' as they charge."  And yet despite himself, Aeron felt a little bit of envy for these men he was imagining.  They, after all, were doing something great and bloody and astonishing, while he and Urri stayed in the Iron Islands, and listened to the vague accounts of what they were doing.   
  
_They are greenlanders,_ repeated the young Ironborn to himself.  _Soft, weak--not ironborn.  It is better to be a son of the sea, even if kept from war, than a weak greenlander, who dresses as a whore would, in jewels purchased by gold..._  
  
"There you two are," came the voice of Harren Botley.  "Thick as thieves, as usual,"  he noted, disapprovingly.  "Your lord father wishes to see you."  
  
Aeron and Urrigon Greyjoy turned swiftly, and followed the heir of Lordsport as he led them towards the cart that would take them to the great palace of Pyke.  Quellon Greyjoy may have known more of the ways of the green lands than most of his ancestors put together, but he was a Greyjoy, of the blood of the Grey King, for all that, and when he called for something, it was best that it be brought to him, swift as swift could be.  
  
It was a windy day, and the bridges of Pyke were swaying even more than the norm, but Aeron and Urrigon were true Greyjoys, and they passed over them swiftly and fearlessly as if born to.  _Soon it will be oars we run,_ Aeron thought to himself, and despite himself, his excitement colored his cheeks. He knew he was the youngest of Quellon's children--save for the greenlanders, little Yara, whose squalls could be heard even now, it seemed to Aeron, and late unlamented Robin, neither of whom counted--but he burned to show his father that in him at least the blood of the sea ran strong and pure.  And perhaps--perhaps he'd soon get his chance.  
  
Quellon Greyjoy was sitting in the Seastone Chair, when they reached him, his three eldest sons before him, while his sole granddaughter, little Asha, dangled from his arm, laughing gleefully.  Quellon regarded her with a small smile, even as he spoke to her father.  "...my mind up, Balon," he said quietly.  "Unless you feel it is grown so soft and worn with age it cannot be trusted anymore."  
  
Balon glanced away, his expression peevish.  "I do not think so, father."  He bit his lip.  "I simply feel you are not..."  
  
"Keep your feelings to yourself, Balon," snapped Quellon. "Until the day you sit in the Seastone Chair as I do.  When that day comes, you may spread them hither and non, and even have them bound into books, if you care to, so all may read and marvel at them.  But for now, it is my feelings which count, and I have made them known to you."  He turned back to little Asha, who was looking at him with some concern.  "One last sway, ehh, little one?"  Asha gave a nervous nod, and then began to squeal in delight as Quellon raised the arm from which she dangled, and began to move it back and forth.  
  
"Oh, the mast is waving in the breeze!" declared the Lord Reaper, "waving and swaying to and fro!"  Asha laughed in joy, and then gave a disappointed cry as Quellon lowered her to the ground.  "There you go, my fine brave girl."  He lowered his angular face to hers.  "Now, give grandfather a kiss."  Asha smiled and gave Quellon a quick peck on the cheek, then darted back to her father, who, almost unknowingly, smiled and tossled her hair as she wrapped her arms around his legs.  Quellon gave a satisfied smile, then turned towards his youngest sons.  "Where were they?" asked Quellon.  
  
Urri spoke up, always bolder than his brother.  "We were at Lordsport, father.  Listening to the Drowned Men."  
  
"They say the Dragons have been pushed to the very shores of the sea!" added Aeron.  
  
Quellon nodded to himself.  "It is good to see the Drowned God still provides his servants with the benefit of his wisdom," he stated, a slight smile on his face.  He coughed slightly.  "It is because of this that I have asked for you, for you see, I have something that I require you to do.  I am sending Victarion to Seagard, there to make his way to King's Landing, to bring my full terms to the Baratheon."  Aeron glanced at his brother, who stood silent as this was said, a frown on his heavy face.  "Accompanying Victarion will be a small party to help with this matter--and among them will be you two."  
  
Aeron was certain his mouth hung open in astonishment, and Urri--Urri seemed close to tears.  "But--but father!" said his elder brother. "I... if we went to war... I hoped..."  
  
Euron gave a sour laugh, a laugh that made Aeron feel cold to the soles of his feet.  "See, father.  Even the brats know what a dishonor this is."  He placed a familiar hand on Victarion's shoulder.  "Much less dear, loyal Victarion..."  
  
Quellon turned his gaze to the Crow's Eye, and Euron's mouth shut.  "I do not recall asking your opinion on this matter, Euron.  And I would say your thoughts are of even less value than Balon's at the moment.  Something I hope you will recall."  
  
Euron frowned, and fidgeted, but--as always happened when Quellon said such things to him, to the eternal marvel of Aeron--he said nothing.  One part of Aeron was overjoyed to see his brother so outfaced, but another, smaller part was whispering that the Crow's Eye always grew more vicious in private, when he was overmatched by Quellon in public.  
  
His father had turned to regard his two youngest sons, his expression soft.  "Now, Urri--Aeron--and, yes Victarion--I am not doing this to shame you, but to honor you.  You are sailing in seas that we Ironborn have not sailed for... many long years."  
  
"But not true seas," noted Balon.  
  
"They must still be sailed," replied Quellon, in a tone that brooked no arguments. He gestured to Urri and Aeron, to step forward, and when they did, he placed strong, firm hands on each of them.  "You two to go forward to do me honor, and to show the world what fine sons I have had."  
  
Euron gave a dark chuckle at this, one that made Aeron go weak in the knees.  He shivered slightly and turned to Urri.  "We will do this for you, father," said his brother, proudly.  
  
Aeron gave a swift nod.  "For you, and for House Greyjoy, and for the Iron Islands."   
  
Quellon smiled, and stood to his feet.  As always, Aeron was amazed by his father's height when he stood.  Even if the years had stooped him slightly, Quellon Greyjoy stood tall and proud as one of the Iron Islands themselves, jutting from the sea.  "Good lads. Good lads."  He turned to the three eldest of his sons.  "Victarion, prepare your ship.  Balon, Euron--go assist in gathering the crew I've indicated."  
  
Balon, Euron and Victarion all bowed and left, little Asha following at their heels.  Quellon watched them leave, his expression quiet.  "Too many," he whispered softly.  
  
"Too many what, father?" asked Aeron.  
  
Quellon seemed surprised at this.  "Oh, nothing. Nothing, Aeron.  Simply... a stray thought."  He smiled at him. "Well--you two best prepare. Oh, the things you shall see!  It will be quite good for both of you, I think."  He nodded to himself. "There's a reason we Ironborn travel so much, I feel."  The Lord Reaper took a deep, slightly rattling breath.  "There is too much grimness here.  We must go elsewhere, to truly live..."  
  
It seemed to Aeron that his father's eyes were watching the vanishing form of Euron as he said this, but it occurred to him this might just be a passing fancy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Aeron's little sister's name--well, I needed one, and the show was kind enough to offer one. And so I took it.
> 
> Sometimes, my thought processes that go into writing things are pretty simple.


	25. The Knight of Hounds

**THE KNIGHT OF HOUNDS**  
  
"And your name, if you please?" Tytos Clegane asked the young freerider before him.  
  
The young man fidgeted nervously.  "Pate, Ser," he replied.  
  
Tytos gave a weary nod.  His call for freeriders and hedge knights to increase his ragged little army's numbers had succeeded, and as so often happened when such things did, he found himself almost wishing it hadn't.  "Pate."  He gazed at the horse the man had brought.  "Would you mind if I called you Pate of the Piebald?" Tytos gave an awkward cough.  "It is simply that we have so many Pates in this company..."  
  
The homely face spread in a broad grin.  "Why, no, Ser!  No!  Not at all!"  He gave a hearty laugh.  "Why it's like a lord's name!"  
  
Tytos nodded.  "Very good.  So, if I call for 'Pate of the Piebald', I mean you, and if you hear a call for 'Long-haired Pate' or 'Bald Pate',  or 'Red Pate', or any other Pate... well, you may ignore that, as it means... that other Pate."  Tytos almost expected to see the man deflate at that, but no, no, he remained proud and cheerful.  _And why not?  He knows all those other Pates--they but attend his glorious rise.  He is the Pate whom history has taken by the hand and declared 'I shall do great things with you.'_  
  
The Knight of Hounds gave a wistful sigh as he watched the young man go off to join the others.  He mocked that boy because he had been that boy, on the eve of the War of the Ninepenny Kings.  In a way he'd been that boy on the eve of every tourney, every melee, every display of arms for years after that.  And then--when his hopes for himself faded--at first there'd been Gregor.  So large--so quick--so full of promise, at the very start of it all...  
  
 _Let it go, Tytos.  Let it go._ The monster that had sprung from his loins had fled Westeros, in all likelihood, and left a black mark on his family's name that would likely stay for generations.  _But he'll no more haunt my hall, and perhaps Sandor will come home again, and Scylla, she'll smile once more.._.  Tytos shook his head.  His father had thought he'd paid the price for his family to rise when he lost three hounds and a leg.  But no.  No, the little clan that had become the Cleganes were still paying that price for gaining a holdfast, a town, and a lord's name of their very own.  Perhaps one day, they'd finally have the balance clear.  
  
"Another man for your ragged little army," said Ser Alyn Stackspear as Tytos passed him.   
  
"Another _Pate_ ," answered Tytos.  "Still, he brings a healthy piebald horse, and he knows how to ride it.  We're in no place to choose our companions, Ser Alyn.  Only to hope that the Seven send us ones we can use."  And I include you in that, boy, thought the Knight of Hounds to himself.  Ser Alyn was a knight of a family far older and distinguished than the Cleganes, and seemed to be actively offended at the circumstances that had placed him under Tytos' authority.  _Still, he's not daft enough to try and sieze control. So perhaps there is hope for him._  
  
The young knight fell in behind him as they marched to the great tower of Silverhill.  "And with your army of farmboys on draft horses, you mean to hold back Highgarden?" said Alyn with a laugh.  
  
"If you wish to try and win a war without an army, Ser Alyn, you may be my guest."  Ser Tytos chuckled.  "In my experience, it does not end well."  He shook his head.  "As for me, when I have no army, I get to work at building a new army."  
  
"Which you then send out dancing all over the countryside," muttered Ser Alyn, eyes squinting in disdain.  
  
"Scouting and harassment are also good tasks for an army, especially when it is this sort of army," said Tytos.  "It may not be much for winning battles, but at the very least, we may make the Tyrells doubt themselves, and move more cautiously.  Which will give us time..."  
  
Young Adam Marbrand approached the pair.  "A raven came from the Rock.  For you, Ser Tytos."  He handed Clegane the message.  Tytos read it, and allowed himself a smile.    
  
"What is it?" asked Alyn, peevishly.  
  
"They have received our message," answered Tytos.  "And Ser Tygett Lannister is coming with a proper army."  
  
Marbrand gave a surprised laugh.  "You--you've done it, Ser.  Against all the odds, we..."  
  
Tytos gave a dismissive wave.  "Have not been overwhelmed yet.  But the morrow is the morrow..."  He frowned, a niggling feeling of unease growing in his breast.    
  
Marbrand nodded.  "Well, Ser, until then, Lady Serrett has prepared a dinner for us, and bids you partake of it."  
  
Tytos gave a bow.  "Tell her it would be my honor and my pleasure."    
  
"Let us hope the pease are cooked properly this time," muttered Ser Alyn.  
  
"Alyn!" snapped Marbrand.  
  
Tytos left them there on the stair, his mind filling with questions that he knew he could not answer.  
  



	26. Catelyn

**CATELYN**  
  
Cat was lying in the Godswood, enjoying the feel of bright sunlight and a cool breeze on her face when her father called for her. _This is spring, true spring,_ she thought to herself, come at last. She was quietly hoping that this war would be ended soon, just like the winter that had spawned it when her father's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Cat! Cat, my dear!" shouted Hoster Tully. "Where are you? I've news--excellent news for you!"  
  
Catelyn Tully rose with a yawn. "I'm here, father!" Glancing around the Godswood, she saw the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands standing at the western end, a letter in his gnarled hand. She gave her legs shake, and walked toward Hoster, who smiled broadly as she approached.  
  
"Excellent news, my dear," he stated, handing her the letter. "Your lord husband returns to the North with many of his lords, and the Lady Shella Whent plans to host them at Harrenhal with feasting and merriment. And we are to attend." Catelyn smiled slightly, as she read her older cousin's stately handwriting. "I trust this is to your satisfaction?"  
  
Catelyn gave a nod. "Of course, father. My husband and I..." _Have barely talked to one another, in all our marriage,_ came the treacherous thought, but Catelyn sent it far from her. "Have been too long separated."  
  
Hoster gave a nod. "Ahh, yes. I know the feeling. When your mother and I..." He shook his head and sighed. "Ahh, you do not want hear an old man's memories."   
  
"It is all right, father," said Cat, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Hoster Tully's love for her late mother, Minisa Whent, had been famed throughout the Riverlands--and even mocked in some less-than-pleasant quarters. He had never completely been the same since her death in childbirth. _But he goes on,_ she reminded herself. _He knows he has people near who need him_.  
  
"Thank you, Cat," said Hoster. "It will be good for us to get out. You, and I, and Edmure..."  
  
There was a name missing in his list, and noticeably so--her sister Lysa, gone off two moon's turns ago to King's Landing to be with her husband and "recover from her misfortune". "Misfortune"--when put that way it almost sounded quaint, what had happened to Lysa and the child of Jon Arryn's she had carried. It had not been quaint at all, listening to her scream and wail for a night and a day, nor had it been quaint hearing her weep for many long days after that. And seeing off the pale, silent shadow that had headed to King's Landing... that had not been quaint at all. Cat had wanted to say 'You will recover from this, and know joy again' but the glance Lysa had given her, empty, cold and hateful had killed the words on her lips. Still, the letters that had come from King's Landing since then had been cheerful, and full of life.   
  
_She is young,_ Cat reminded herself. _There will be other children. She will fill the Vale of Arryn with them, in time._ She tried to keep her mind on more pleasant things by focusing on the letter before her, and quickly found herself raising an eyebrow. "Jaime Lannister will be there?" she asked quietly.  
  
"On his way north to the Wall," said Hoster with a nod. "Well, him and quite a few others, but he will probably be the only one who's unchained on the way..." He regarded his daughter with a smile. "Do not worry, Cat. We will simply smile at the young man, and make polite conversation. We Tullys have managed to do so for many generations now, and for worse characters. Speaking of which--the Late Lord Frey has wed again."  
  
Catelyn blinked at that. "How many is...?"  
  
"A most godly seven," answered Hoster, rolling his eyes. "Lord Weasel is quite put out that I neither attended nor sent him a gift. I'd think that for a man of his years--and to be frank, appearance--GETTING married would be the gift, but then that is old honest Hoster Tully for you."  
  
"That poor girl," said Cat, laughing slightly despite herself.  
  
"Oh, I'm not so sorry for young Annara Farring," said Hoster. "She knew what she was getting into--or at least imagined she did. It's Ser Stevron Frey who has my sympathies--waiting forever for that old lecher to at last pass on. He has, I have heard, become so distraught over the news of his father's most recent marriage that he has taken ill, and now spends much of his time abed in Stoney Sept, commanding his troops by raven..." Father and daughter shared a laugh at that. "The Seven gives us all burdens," noted Hoster. "To me, they gave the Freys..."  
  
Catelyn smiled. "Father... should... may I bring him?"  
  
Lord Tully regarded his daughter levelly. "Do you think he is up to travel?"  
  
"He is hale and hearty," she said quietly. "And he will have to go North soon anyways."  
  
"Very well," said Hoster, with a smile. "You get the little dear ready, and he will see his father at Harrenhal."  
  
She turned and left the Godswood then, and walked through the halls to the nursery. Her son's nurse was cradling him as she entered, but handed the boy wordlessly to her as she approached. The babe gave a merry gurgle as his mother took him, and Catelyn smiled at the comfortable weight. It felt good to hold him, and good to look at him. "We are going to see your father," she whispered to him, and as the boy gave a playful little kick in her arms, it occurred to her that whatever the turns her life had taken, it was on the whole, not a bad one.


	27. Davos

**DAVOS**

"We must move swiftly like a swan ship," said Salladhor Saan, leading his friend down the unsteady Braavosi street. "The Sealord of the Braavosi does not like to be kept waiting. Especially by a Westerosi smuggler..."

Davos Seaworth frowned at that. "I am a knight," he said, barely believing it, "and the emissary of a king." _Who is staying onboard a smuggler's ship, and who the Sealord is practically meeting in secret_.

"And to the Sealord, you are first and foremost still a smuggler," noted the Lyseni with a shrug. "That is the way of the world in Braavos, good ser. You tread now in waters I have long sailed, my friend." He shook his head, and gave his tongue a click. "Why, whenever I deal with them, I suffer such indignities--I, a lord with the blood of kings in my veins."

Davos gave a snort. Salladhor was a lord by his own account, and no one else's, and the "kings" whose blood ran in his veins were men like the famed Ninepenny King Samarro Saan, or Saathos Saan of the Basilisk Isles. _And now he fights for Stannis Baratheon_. Davos wondered what that said about the Stags' cause, and then quietly swore to himself. _As if the Dragons would not have Salladhor and all his ships if they could. That we have them is a sign of strength, not weakness._

"Thief!" came the voice of young woman, speaking in Westerosi. "Stop! Thief!" As a young boy darted in front of him, Davos' hand darted out and grabbed him firmly by the shoulder. The boy turned to stare at him nervously, only for his accuser to reach the little cluster--a pretty young woman, dark-haired, with a strong, sharp-featured face, dressed well, with a child on her shoulder. "You... you..." she said, grey eyes narrowed as she stared at the boy. She turned to regard Davos. "Thank you. I..." She turned again on the boy. "He has taken my purse..."

Davos gave the boy a slight shake. "Give it back to her," he noted. The boy gave a resentful look, and produced the little purse. The lady accepted it with a bow, and then regarded the little boy for a moment.

"Here," she said at length, producing a coin that she handed to the boy. "Don't steal." The boy grabbed the coin eagerly and then darted away into the crowd.

"If you do not mind this humble man saying so, fair lady," said Salladhor, who'd been watching all this with droll amusement, "that coin was as wasted as the moral instruction that went with it..."

"He looked hungry," said the young lady, stroking the head of her babe. "I'd hate for his mother to know that he was going without food..."

"The boy's mother is in all likelihood a whore who would not care if he lives or dies," noted Salladhor with a shrug.

The young woman glared at the Lyseni. "And how would you like it if some stranger spoke of your mother that way?"

"As this stranger would be speaking straight and utter truth, I would not care a single groat for it," replied Salladhor with a smile.

"You mustn't pay attention to Salladhor, miss," said Davos. "He's a heartless old smuggler, through and through."

The woman gave a nod. "Yes, yes, I see that's the case," she muttered. Turning to Davos she gave him a smile. "I... thank you again. For the help, and the kindness, and... for being a Westerosi." She shook her head. "It's been months since I talked with someone else from the Seven Kingdoms..."

Davos chuckled. "We are in the same boat, miss. I've been roaming the Free Cities for... quite a length of time now..." He paused and gave a rough bow. "Davos Seaworth, miss."

"SER Davos Seaworth," added Salladhor Saan.

The woman looked quite surprised. "I..." She gave a rough curtsie--made rougher by the child she was carrying--and smiled. "Arya Flint," she stated. "And my son. Rodrick." She glanced at the pair. "I... again, it's been a long while since I spoke with a fellow Westerosi. How... goes the war...?"

"The land still bleeds, miss," answered Davos. "But King Stannis will soon get it aright, and fix its wounds with justice." A smile came to his face, unbidden.

Arya Flint gave a nod. "Well... that is good then." She gave a slight cough. "I... I really must be going..." She gave another awkward curtsy and then moved away.

"Young Miss Flint!" said Salladhor Saan, as she left. "Perhaps you would like to meet with us later on my ship, _The Valyrian_ , for a meal? We are having savory crab stew!"

"Sorry, but no," said the young woman, vanishing down a side street.

Salladhor shook his head as she vanished. "Ahh, Ser Davos, Ser Davos, you truly are a knight of your Seven. To have aided that young dainty for nothing more than a smile and a thank you..." He chuckled.

"I've a wife," said Davos bluntly.

"And I have many," said Salladhor, "but my eyes remain alert for chances to have a few more..." He sighed wistfully. "Ahh, well. Come, let us hope the Sealord has not grown impatient with us."

It was some time before they reached the meeting place, a small and simple house on a back street. The Sealord was seated in a simple chair as they entered the room, idly stroking the cat on his lap. A man with a bald head stood nearby, hand on the hilt of his narrow sword. It occurred to Davos that he was not even armed, but he shook his head. _If they wished to kill me, they could have it done on the streets, and no one would be the wiser_. "Your..." began Davos, before realizing he had no idea how to speak to a Sealord. "Most Honorable Lordship," he finished, lamely.

If the Sealord was in anyway offended by this, he didn't show it. "Please, Ser Davos, there is no reason for such formality here. This is a quiet meeting, held between us as... private individuals, so that we may determine where we stand. Nothing more." He scratched his cat's head. "You may call me 'Lord Fregar', just as I will call you Ser Davos, yes?"

Davos nodded. "If you wish... ."

The Sealord nodded, then turned to Salladhor. "Lyseni, if you would be so kind to leave...?"

Salladhor gave a stately bow. "Of course. Never let it be said that a Saan stays where he is not wanted, if that is where he does not want to be..." He politely exited the room, as the Sealord chuckled.

"A bothersome people, the Lyseni," he said at length. "And the Saans are the most bothersome of the whole race. Still, it is hard not to admire their daring, at times, as it is something most of their fellows lack..." He regarded Davos. "So... you are here for your Stag King, yes? Seeking ships, as you were in Pentos before this, and in Myr before that, and in Tyrosh before that." The Sealord gave a smile. "I suppose you will go to Lorath next."

"Only if I need more ships after we're done," answered Davos.

"One would think Braavos had a war fleet simply lying around for you to take back to the Stag King," said Lord Fregar. He gave his cat a scratch behind the ears and smiled. "And one would imagine that we would simply give it to you if we had it."

"You would be paid," said Davos. "Handsomely."

"That's a song Braavos has heard before," noted the Sealord. "Why should we pay heed to it this time? We have concerns of our own, and other wars to worry about. The fighting in the Disputed Lands grows most worrisome, we have heard. Tyrosh--Tyrosh is reaching out to Myr, which is, to be true, not so unusual--and to Volantis, which is quite unusual indeed. Volantis will probably refuse them, of course--but we are wondering if they will definitely do so, and the people grow worried. Another Century of Blood... it would not happen, we say, but then we wonder if we are mistaking what we wish for what will be..."

Davos felt almost like a man cast adrift in the ocean, trying desperately to tread water and not drown. "Lord Fregar, I... really can't make any promise about Tyrosh, or Volantis, or any other city. I can only promise that if King Stannis is given the aid he seeks, you will be repaid." His hand went to his luck as he said this, and then... then it all seemed so marvelously clear to him. He raised his gloved left hand. "He is a man of his word who makes certain to see debts paid. I brought him onions, and he gave me a knighthood..." He removed the glove, and showed his maimed hand. "And I had been a smuggler for many years, so he took these four fingertips for my crimes. By his own hand, as I wouldn't allow any other to take them." He put the glove back on. "That is the man I would have you deal with. That is the man I serve." He gave a nod. "With pride, Lord Fregar. With pride."

Davos Seaworth stood there, and waited for the Sealord's answer.


	28. The Black Bat in White

**THE BLACK BAT IN WHITE**  
  
Ser Gerold Hightower regarded the knight kneeling before him with a rather dubious look. "And those were his terms?"  
  
"They were, Lord Commander," answered Barristan Selmy. He glanced around the room at his fellow Kingsguard members, his expression somewhat abashed. Ser Oswell felt an acute sense of embarrassment. _Do not look so low, Barristan_ , he wished to say. _You are one of the best of us. Perhaps the **very** best._ But he did not, as the expression on the White Bull's face suggested that would be... an unwise statement to make.   
  
Ser Gerold snorted. "Well, we shall send the Usurper a raven then, with our answer. The Kingsguard spits upon the pardon he has no right to give. Especially as he gives it for that which is no crime, but simply honest duty. We serve the realm's true king, who is Viserys Targaryen, third of his name." _Except, perhaps he is not,_ thought Oswell to himself. "And we will do so with our lives, and our deaths!" _And the deaths of other men, who are not Kingsguard_ , noted Oswell, shocked by his own bitterness. Ser Gerold leaned forward pointing emphatically. "The Kingsguard does not play games with the succession! Not since Ser Cristan Cole!" Ser Oswell glanced at the Sword of Morning and found Ser Arthur glancing at him. One look showed they shared the same thought-- _but that is what you had us do, White Bull. And you know it._  
  
Ser Gerold leaned back. "As for these men he has installed around him who he calls our brothers--we know them not. Our new brothers in the white are Ser Ullwyk Uller of Hellholt, Ser Arron Santagar of Spotswood, and Ser Garth Hightower of Oldtown, and I will add they are better men all than the Usurper's lackeys!"  
  
Ser Barristan Selmy gave the White Bull a slightly reproachful look. "Ser Ullwyk Uller is a better man than Ser Brynden Tully?" he asked quietly. Ser Oswell had to suppress a chuckle at that, and he noted that Ser Garth was grinning, despite his great-uncle's displeasure.  
  
"In that he did not kneel to this... callow Baratheon boy who dares to step to the throne that his murdering brother cleared the way for him, aye, he is!" snapped Ser Gerold.  
  
"My pardon, Lord Commander," coughed Ser Barristan. "I merely felt... that we should try to remember our foes are not men devoid of honor..."  
  
"They have killed a king, and placed a usurper in his place," muttered Ser Gerold, darkly. "That says all we are to know of their honor." He stared at Ser Barristan darkly. "Or are you now among them, Ser Barristan?"  
  
Ser Barristan frowned. "Stannis Baratheon offered me a place as Lord Commander if you should refuse to serve him, Ser. And I said that I would never hold such a position while you lived, and that as you chose, I would follow."  
  
"And yet he released you," said Ser Arthur Dayne quietly.  
  
"With my sworn word that I would not take to the field against him," said Barristan, with a pained nod.  
  
Ser Gerold nodded. "Well, you may still perform many duties of the Kingsguard. The King must be guarded, after all. As the Princess must."  
  
"Both things I am eager to do," said Ser Barristan, rising to his feet.  
  
Ser Gerold regarded him for a moment, then turned to Ser Oswell. "Take him to the King." Ser Oswell gave the Lord Commander a bow, then departed from the room, Ser Barristan followed him out. The two knights wandered the halls of Highgarden for awhile in silence.   
  
"I was surprised, when you did not come with the Prince to the Trident," said Barristan at last.  
  
"He gave us... other duties," said Ser Oswell quietly.  
  
Ser Barristan gave a nod at that, and then looked at his Sworn Brother pleadingly. "Seven help me, Oswell, I wish I'd been slain as Prince Lewyn and Jon Darry were, if it would remove the stain I've taken by bearing Lord Baratheon's terms, but..."  
  
"Do not worry, Ser Barristan," said Ser Oswell. "The White Bull does not truly doubt your honor." _He doubts his own._ "No man can fault you what you have done. You fought valiantly, and took wounds in service to your king. And now... you may continue to serve." _Do not envy the dead, Ser Barristan, and do not envy us. Both they and us are envying you, and you seem blind to it._ The sound of children's laughter reached his ears. Ser Ullwyk and Ser Arron stood before a door of rosewood, hands on their swords. They gazed at Ser Barristan questioningly. "It is all right. The Lord Commander has given him permission." With a nod, they stood aside, and opened the door.  
  
The young king and his companions were seated in a circle, in what appeared to be a mock Small Council meeting. "Yes, indeed, Lord Willas," said Viserys sagaciously, "the holdfast we will build must have a double wall. And a great moat. That way, it will be unpentrable."  
  
Ser Barristan gave a cheerful chuckle and stepped forward--only to have a young girl rush at him, brandishing a small spear. "Hold! Hold!" she shouted. "You stand before the King! Hold and declare yourself!" Barristan stared at the fierce girl, with her awkward face, narrow eyes and ratty-brown hair, clearly baffled.  
  
Viserys turned and regarded Barristan, a smile appearing on his young face. "It is all right, Obara," he said, as he stood up. He approached, and placed a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder. "This is Ser Barristan Selmy, who stood watch over me, when I was a child." He stared at the man, violet eyes wide with admiration. "And who saved my father singlehandedly at Duskendale."  
  
Ser Barristan knelt before the king. "Your Grace... I..."  
  
"No, no, do not speak," replied Viserys, waving his hand. "I know your loyalty. I _know_ it." He turned to the girl. "This one is my dear friend, Obara Sand. She is my sworn companion, and she has pledged to protect me with her life, as you have." The king turned, and stood on his tiptoes. As the two Kingsguard watched, he kissed her on the cheek, and Obara gave a delighted shiver. Viserys turned to smile at them. "So, see, we are all friends here."   
  
Ser Oswell gave a slight shrug, as his Sworn Brother fixed him with a wondering gaze. _Yes, yes, but the King dotes upon her, her father is another favorite,_ thought Oswell, as he rehearsed the speech he would make to Selmy later, _and besides, it is best to let youthful infatuations such as this run their course..._  
  
"I am glad to meet you, Lady Obara," said Ser Barristan, with a stately bow, "and more glad to know that we are all friends."  
  
Viserys turned, filled with enthusiasm. "You must meet the rest." He gestured to a young boy. "That is Drey Dalt! He is his brother's page! Aurane Waters--half-brother to Lord Velaryon!  And there--that is Dickon Manwoody! He is his uncle's squire! That one is Lady Nym--Obara's sister! And there is Hobber Redwyne--and his brother, Horas. Their father is my Master of Ships! That is Victaria Tyrell! And that is Alyssane Hightower! And there is Sylva Spotwood! And there is Tyan Fossoway! And here--here is my especial friend, Lord Willas Tyrell."   
  
The brown-haired young boy who Viserys had placed a hand on the shoulder of gave a thankful nod to the king. "Your Grace is kind," he said in a quiet voice.  
  
"No, no, you are kind," said Viserys. "You gave me and my sister shelter, when we stood betrayed by those who'd claimed loyalty to us, and you took up our cause, like your father before you, who the Stags have killed, as they killed mine!" He turned to the Kingsguard. "When this war is over, and we are both men grown, I will make Willis my Hand!" Viserys gave a nod. "Yes, my friends will all aid me, when I truly rule the realm."  
  
Ser Barristan chuckled. "It is good to see Your Grace so full of hope," he said. Ser Oswell had to agree. He remembered the boy he had known back at King's Landing--lonely, and sheltered, and scared. _This is what he needs--what he has always needed. Friends, and companions, and life. Oh, I suspect there will always be a touch of his father to him, but... if he is surrounded by light and good fellowship, instead of darkness and suspicion, it will not go the way Aerys' madness did. He will become a pleasant, loving man, and, perhaps, in time, even a good king._  
  
Viserys moved away from the little circle of friends, Obara hovering by his side, while gesturing for the Kingsguard to follow. "Come! Come! You must see my sister! And the Lady Margaery!" The king gave a thoughtful nod. "I am thinking I will marry one or the other. Dany is my sister, of course, and the blood of the dragon should remain pure--but then father and mother were brother and sister before us, and grandfather and grandmother before them, and wedding Margaery would make Willas my goodbrother, which is an honor he greatly deserves..." He tapped his chin. "Perhaps I will marry both. We are grown few, we Targaryens..."  
  
Obara's narrow-set eyes narrowed further. "The Tyrells are but stewards, far too common to wed a Dragon..."  
  
Viserys turned to her, and placed a hand on her cheek. "I am the king," he said, stroking her face. "I decide who is common and who is not." And then he leaned forward on his tiptoes and kissed her again, this time on the lips.  
  
Ser Oswell gave Ser Barristan an apologetic glance, as they moved onward.


	29. Jaime

**JAIME**

She was standing by the window when he entered, clad in red silk and Myrish lace, her hand playing with a fine necklace of silver and amber. The room was dark, lit by a single torch, but her hair glowed with a golden light all its own. His lady love, his twin self, his sweet Cersei. She turned as he stepped towards her and smiled at him. "Jaime..." she said, and then she was in his arms, and he was kissing her sweet lips...

_I have starved of this,_ he thought, as he felt his sister's lips on his, her arms wrapping around him, her breasts against his chest. He began to work at untying the laces that held her dress on...

Cersei's hands pressed against him, as she backed away. "Jaime," she whispered. "Not now."

Jaime stood there, abashed. _She is right. I... Stannis Baratheon has been more than fair with me, and I... would repay him by making him a cuckold..._ "I... I am sorry, Cersei," he began. "Seeing you like this... I lost control..."

Cersei shook her head, and walked over to a small chest. "It's no... I forgive you." She opened the chest. "Now hurry! We must act quickly." She pulled a heavy cloak out of the chest and tossed it at him. It fell quite short, and Jaime watched as it landed on the ground. Cersei continued to pull things out of the chest, oblivious. "There's a horse in the stables, waiting. I use it for riding... some days. You will have to saddle it, but... I... we can be at the docks, in an hour or so, and be gone across the Narrow Sea before they..."

Jaime blinked. "Cersei... Cersei, what are you talking about?"

"We must flee, Jaime! Flee to Essos!" She looked at him, green eyes flashing and luminous. "They'll never find us there! We--we can take new names, live as man and wife! You can make a living as a sellsword, perhaps, and I... I'll be your lady! They won't know us, they think one Andal the same as another..." She gave a fervant nod. "It will be perfect!"

Jaime listened to the excited babble issuing from Cersei's lips and suppressed an urge to ask if he was going to carve out a little kingdom to call their own eventually in her wild imaginings. "Cersei..." He took a deep breath. "Cersei, will you listen to yourself? This is... madness..."

Cersei blinked. "Jaime, he means to send you to the Wall!" She gave out a strange noise, half a growl, half a sob. "The Wall! You'll freeze, and shiver, and... and die up there, alone, without... without..." She picked up a cloak she'd set aside, and began to put it on. "Hurry! Get on your cloak!" She gestured to a little bundle in the chest. "And make sure I don't forget those! They'll pay for passage!"

Jaime stared at the bundle. "You mean--you haven't actually gotten us passage on a ship?"

Cersei stared at him, as if he was mad. "Of course not! I'm the Queen, Jaime! I am watched! Always watched! By the court... By Sta-my hu-the King... By father..." She shut her eyes and shuddered. "But the boats always come and go. It should be easy to get one to take us where we need to go. To Pentos. Or Braavos. Or Norvos. Or some such place. It doesn't matter where. Just that it's not _here_." She turned to look at him, and her eyes went wide. "Come on! Get on your cloak!"

"Cersei..." Jaime sighed, and shook his head. "I am not doing this." He half expected her to scream at this, or shout, or burst into tears. Instead she simply stood there, her mouth wide open, her eyes glistening. "I... Stannis did not do this to me, Cersei. It is my choice. I _chose_ to take the black. I... I must regain what I have lost." He bit his lip and looked out the window. "The realm... they all think it is when I killed Aerys, and perhaps... perhaps they are right. But I... I do not know. Perhaps it was earlier. Perhaps it was when fa... later. All I know is the white cloak brought me shame. Perhaps the black will bring me honor."

"Honor?" spat out Cersei. He turned to look at her. Her mouth was no longer hanging open--now it was moving, clenching open and shut as if she was trying to find words that would convey what she was feeling. And her eyes were livid with rage. "You chose... You... That frozen... It..." And then she began to laugh. "You joined the White because you wanted ready access to my cunt, you little..." she said in what was half a guffaw and half a snarl. "Honor? You talk of...? You..." She stared at him for a moment, then rushed forward, and began to rain blows on him. Jaime made no move to stop her.

_She is... simply distraught, and not thinking about things,_ he thought to himself as her clumsy fists struck his chest. _Really, they don't even hurt._ "Honor!" she cried. "You and your _honor_!" She spat on his feet. "I have misjudged you! I have never known you! Not the real you! My _golden lion_!" She gave a bitter laugh. "My yellow kitten more like it!" She glared at him, as she stepped back. "Well, no longer mine! It is good you're going off to be a crow now! It suits you better to be a scavenging bird." Her eyes regarded him with immense contempt. "A coward like you! You are no lion!" She turned away from him. "I have been a fool! Mention this to no one! Gods, I almost fled my husband for you! You! A false lion!"

Jaime found himself growing irritated, despite trying not to be. "And I suppose the king your husband is a true stag..." he muttered.

Cersei snickered at that. "Oh, rest assured, he is. That I know beyond a shadow of a doubt." She gave another laugh. "So do not fear for me, dear brother, as you go seeking your honor up amongst the ice, and the grumkins, and the snarks. I will be well looked after. Indeed, I expect will barely notice you've gone."

Jaime felt an ache in him, a bitter, dull terrible ache as she said all this. _I should get out of this room. **Now**._ "Well, I am happy for you," he said, as he remained there. "You've gotten everything you really cared for I see..."

"And you nothing," snarled Cersei. "They despise you, you know. The men who have taken your place in the white. Each and every one of them spits on you. As do I." And once again she spat at him, but this time, she aimed for his face. And struck it, so the spittle hit him squarely on a cheek.

"Cersei," he said, in what was either longing or anger-he did not know-as he reached out to grab her by the shoulder.

She slapped his hand away, and Jaime stepped backward as if scalded. "Do not touch me! Do _not **touch** me_!" She angrily waved at the door. "Go! Get out of my sight! I never want to see you again!" She turned around, and gripped her own shoulders with a nervous shiver.

Jaime stood there for a moment, and then quietly left the room. As he shut the door behind him, he heard Cersei burst into tears and loud sobs. A part of him wished to go to her then, but he knew it would not go well. Instead he left the chambers, and walked on. When he reached the battlements, he simply stopped there, and stood looking at the skies. It was comforting somehow, though he found himself wondering if the direction he was looking was north, towards the Wall, or to the east, across the Narrow Sea. He wished that Tyrion were here, or his uncle Gerion. They knew such things. He felt small, and quiet, and for the first time in his life, truly and utterly alone.


	30. The Foul-Smelling Flower

**THE FOUL-SMELLING FLOWER**  
  
Ellara Sand threw her head back and laughed, long and hard. "With an _Ibbenese_ woman?" she at last declared, when she finally regained enough control to form words.  
  
"No!" declared Garth Tyrell emphatically, slapping a chubby hand against the table. "No, not a woman. Many Ibbenese!" He gave a merry chuckle. "Ahh, sweet lady, I swear to you, the sight of a faint wisp of a mustache in the Ibbenese-style still makes this old heart beat faster from fond nostalgia." The Lord Seneschal gave a smack of his lips as the dinner company exploded into laughter.  
  
Prince Oberyn Martell chuckled to himself and shook his head. "My good Lord Seneschal has lived a remarkable life, I see."  
  
"Indeed!" said Garth with a nod. "My apologies for the braggadocio, but then I view false modesty as a greater sin than pride. Oh, I have often flirted with the idea of writing down the story of my life, though I fear the resulting tome would make Mushroom's _Testament_ appear the model of propriety, and likely result in the Faith, the Citadel, and the religious and civil heads of the Free Cities joining hands to call for my head." He gave a sigh, and popped a spicy Dornish pepper in his mouth. After a chew, he continued. "Still--the stories I can tell. Long nights in Lys! Bold days in Braavos! Temptations in Tyrosh! Plotting in Pentos! Madness in Myr! Queer going-ons in Qohor!"  
  
"And lust in Lorath, no doubt," said Ser Ryon Allyrion, with a snicker.  
  
"Oh no," said Garth with a dismissive wave. "No, Lorath is a frightfully dull place. You go, you look at the mazes, you nod in dull wonder, and then you pray to whatever powers you believe in that there's a ship readily available to get you to somewhere that isn't Lorath." He gave an exaggerated wince. "In my case, alas, this took a month, wherein I wound up learning all sorts of details about seal-hunting that quickly passed from fascinating to dull..." The Lord Seneschal glanced around the table at the laughing guests and feigned offense. "I say! You _doubt_ me! You doubt my word as a gentleman!" He pointed across the table. "Moryn! My dear brother! You were there with me for much of it! We heard the bells of Norvos toll midnight together, you and I!"  
  
Ser Moryn Tyrell laughed and gave a merry nod. "It's true--it's all true..." He glanced around at the company. "Or rather, the parts that I _saw_ happen _are_. As to the rest, I must confess, I stand in the same position of doubting wonder as the rest of you..." He spread his hands. "For example--I know that my dear brother took a trip up the Rhoyne in a Volantene pleasure barge at the invite of... a certain lady of high family, and her husband. And I know that it lasted for a moon's turn. But as to what occurred to my brother from the moment I saw him stride upon the deck, to a month later, when he was deposited in our rooms by their servants, a drunken heap, I rely on his account, the same as you."  
  
"And what accounts they are!" said Ser Aron Qorgyle, chuckling.  
  
"As I can state from personal experience," declared Martyn Mullendore, "they are things of great substance and volume. Much like the man who says them."  
  
Another general burst of laughter burst out around the table. Ellara Sand rolled her eyes. "Personally, I think underneath the mockery you are all a bit envious of the Lord Seneschal. He's a man who has spent his life doing what most only dream of."  
  
"And I pay the price of it, dear lady," said Garth, with a wag of his head. "I was not always as you now see me, you realize! Why I when I was younger, they called me "Garth the Gorgeous", "Garth the Glittering", "Garth the Gregarious"... and so forth. Frankly, I can't recall them all, only that they enjoyed coupling my name with various superlatives beginning with 'g'. And now..." He gestured to his face, and suppressed a belch. "A ruined face, and a ruined digestion. Ahh, well. It could be worse. I've ancestors named "Garth the Gory" and "Garlan the Grim", after all..." He gave a shrug. "And I like to imagine a faint glimmer of my former charm remains."  
  
Ellara leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "More than a faint glimmer," she said as she sat back in her chair.  
  
"I bless you, sweet lady," said Garth, gently patting her hand, "and if I were a much younger man, I would probably do more, but alas, the sword grows rusty in its sheath, the stallion grows lame, and the once mighty tower is worn down until only broken stone remains. But rest assured, if the mighty river of my soul could gush forth as is its wont, I'd be striving to bathe you every delectable inch of you in its waters!" He turned towards Prince Oberyn. "I do hope this does not offend you..."  
  
Oberyn merely smiled. "It is my belief that beauty such as the Lady Ellara's should not be owned by any one man."  
  
Garth saluted the prince with his glass. "A wise and noble statement, which I can fully endorse. Ahh, what a fine pair you make! I truly do not know who to envy more for the having of the other." He gave a regretful sigh. "Ahh, youth, how I miss you..."  
  
Oberyn gave Garth a companionable pat on the shoulder. "I assure the Lord Seneschal that he is forever young at heart."  
  
"Why thank you, my dear sir," said Garth, taking the Prince's hand. "But alas, it is the rest of me I want young. Still, rest assured, that river I mention would have run as hard and as wet for you as for your darling lady, if alas, time had not dried it up, leaving only the dust and pebbles." He raised Oberyn's hand to his lips and gave it a kiss.  
  
Oberyn smiled as giggles broke out around the table, and Lady Cuy laughed so hard wine spurted from her nose. "My Lord Seneschal is too kind. Indeed, I am honored to have the good opinion of a man who strode so long at the lists of love, and cast so tall a shadow..."  
  
"And now I say you are too kind," said Garth, with a wistful shake of his head. "Ahh, me. I've trod my path in romance, that I have, and supped well at the feast, enjoying the goose and the gander, the cow and the bull, the hen and the rooster, and yes, even the capon, as they chanced to be served to me." The Lord Steward turned as there was a knock on the chamber's door. "Do come in..." His goodnephew Jon Fossoway entered nervously, as if half expecting to stumble on the party in a state of undress. "Ahh! Ser Jon! May I interest you in sitting for a cup?"  
  
The Knight of the Lemonwood raised his glass. "There's even cider here from your own hall..."  
  
"I must pass," said Jon, frowning. He coughed. "The Old Lady Dowager has need to speak to you. Wine purchases, she says."  
  
Garth nodded. "Ah. That is a grave matter." He stood to his feet, steadying himself with a chair, and then gave the group a wobbly bow. "Goodbye, my sweetlings. I must depart, and brave the Queen of Thorns. If you do not see me again, pray for my soul."  
  
The company gave assorted cries of disappointment. "Are you sure cannot stay longer?" said Lady Fowler.  
  
"Alas, my goodsister grows even more prickly when delayed, and so I go," declared Garth. At the next burst of cries, he gave a dismissive wave as he went to the door. "Come now! Come! All my departure means is that you'll need to burn less sandalwood to keep this place smelling sweet! Again, farewell, darlings!"  
  
He and Ser Jon walked on in silence for a while. "Charming people, you know," said Garth.  
  
"If my Lordship says so," muttered his goodnephew, rolling his eyes.  
  
"I do say so," said Garth. "I've often felt that the Reach and Dorne need to put aside our petty differences and recognize our kinship! Of all the Seven Kingdoms, we two are the ones where we make love and war into arts!" Ser Jon nodded dully, and opened the door to Olenna Tyrell's solar. Garth gave a bow. "I thank you, Ser..." He waddled into the chamber.  
  
Olenna sat at her chair, flipping through papers. "So, Garth how was your little party...?"  
  
"As I was just saying to dear Ser Jon," said Garth, taking a seat, "a delightful gathering, filled with delightful people."  
  
Olenna gave him a sidelong glance. "And...?"  
  
"Ahh, let us see," said Garth with a yawn. "Lady Fowler is making eyes at young Ser Qorgyle. As is Lady Cuy, though she is also making them at the young Knight of the Lemonwood. Wasted, as he has managed to bewitch our shining white knight Ser Ullwyk, as I previously indicated." He gave a shrug. "And that is merely the start--all fairly useful, I imagine..."  
  
"Indeed," said Olenna. "You'll be glad to know that the Florents have been taken without incident."  
  
"As I always say, gold in the right place is usually cheaper and surer than a sword," noted Garth with a smile. He shook his head. "Poor Lord Alester..."  
  
"Oh, yes, poor Lord Alester, who wished to see us all cast in the dirt, and his own jug-eared kin raised in our place," muttered Olenna. "My heart fairly bleeds for him."  
  
Garth gave an admiring shake of his head. "Ahh, Olenna--I've said it before, and I shall say it again--you were wasted on my brother." He chuckled. "Gods, the children we could have made."  
  
"I'd have killed you within a year for your lechery and your flatulence," replied Olenna, flipping through the papers.  
  
"And it would have been worth it, for every divine second," said Garth with a laugh. The Queen of Thorns glanced at him, gave an appreciative snort, then went back to her papers.


	31. The Butcher's Son

**THE BUTCHER'S SON**  
  
The scribe struck the little white wooden hammer on what had been the counter of Janos' butcher shop. "Order, order," said the little man, idly stroking the salt-and-pepper beard that covered his foxy little face. "This lesser assembly of the Great Guildhall of King's Landing will begin shortly." He glanced around the room. "Are the twenty-and-one witnesses assembled?" There was a general murmur of assent from the crowd, which the man seemed to ignore. "Two from the Smiths of the Street of Steel?" Two men made their way to the front of the crowd and raised their hands--Janos recognized one as Tobho Mott. The scribe noted with a nod and continued his call. "Two from the Butchers of the Street of the Sister? Two from the Bakers of the Street of Flour? Two from the Weavers of the Street of Looms? Two from the Mercers of the Hook? Two from the Coopers of the Muddy Way?"   
  
"Fuck yes," said Mollaro Deem, the portions of his cheeks not obscured by tattoos flushing red. "Now get on with it."  
  
The scribe ignored him. "Two from the Masons of Irongate? Two priests to see for the Gods old and new?" Azollo of Myr and Loren the Begging Brother raised their cups to that. "A wheelwright? A shipwright?  A barber? A tavern-keeper? A carpenter? A cobbler?" At last he gave a nod. "And a scribe, to record it all. The twenty-and-one are gathered." He struck the hammer against the table again. "The Guilds of the Great Guildhall meet in this place, which for now stands in the place of that august building. May it soon be rebuilt!"  
  
"Remember the White Table!" declared many of the company. Janos glanced at Ilyrio Mopatis. His guest continued to watch the goings-on with an amused, slightly superior air. _This must all seem foolish to him, a magister of Pentos._ It almost seemed foolish to Janos, but, in the end he was too versed in this world. The familiar cry and the familiar list that had proceeded it brought to his mind countless such meetings that had proceeded it, where he had come with his father, and before that... with his grandfather. The image of old Nyvar Slynt, with his snowy white hair, and the great black tattoo of a cleaver branded on his forehead, came unbidden to his mind. _'Reverence,'_ said the old man.  _'This is power.'_  
  
The scribe glanced around the room. "We are gathered here to see Janos Slynt, journeyman of the Butcher's Guild, in good standing, renounce his membership in that august body, and transfer it to--the Guild of Mercers. Also, the Guild of Wine-Sellers. Also the Guild of Grain-Merchants. And also the twenty-five lesser guilds of those that sell. Is this is the case?"  
  
Janos stepped forward. "It is, sir."  
  
The scribe nodded. "And who speaks for these guilds?"  
  
"I do, sir," said a thin man with large ears and pale straw-colored hair, stepping forward. "Tommen Brightflowers. A Master of the Mercers. Sir."  
  
"Indeed," said the scribe, jotting it down. "And you accept this man?"  
  
"As he is a guildsman of good standing, sir, of the Great and Honorable Guild of the Butchers, we accept him," declared Brightflowers, "if the fee is paid."  
  
"And I believe a third party has agreed to pay this?" said the scribe.  
  
"That would be me," said Ilyrio with a smile. "Ilyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos."  
  
The scribe glanced up at this. "Respect," he stated with a slight nod of his head, and then went back to his writing.   
  
"Respect," stated quite a few of the other guildsmen, though the expressions on their faces were not exactly welcoming. The Guilds of King's Landing tried to keep what ragged bits of custom of their orders as they understood, but the fact remained that for many, titles like 'magister' smacked of the decadent east that no proper Westerosi held with--and for the rest, it was a reminder of a life they'd fled across the Narrow Sea to escape. Mollaro Deem in particular seemed in an ill mood. Janos remembered something the old cooper said one day at his cups. "I've been to Volantis, and I've been to Pentos. And the difference? In Volantis they look you in the eye, and say they are fucking you as they fuck you."  
  
Janos shifted awkwardly, and glanced at the magister. This had all happened because he'd let the fat Pentoshi stay at his house until he could get a secure ship out of the city. But the days had dragged on, and Ilyrio Mopatis had begun to grow nervous, and stroke his beard, and be cross to his servant. At last the merchant had took him aside, and asked if Janos had, perhaps, known people who could help him unload certain goods for perhaps a slight share of the profits.  
  
And Janos had.  
  
The first few sales Janos had engineered had been astonishing enough to the man, but as it continued, and the amounts Ilyrio wished disposed of had increased, Janos had all but forced to take the magister aside and explain that, connections and friends of his family aside, if Janos was going to assist in this matter, he would need to be a formal member of the necessary guilds. And to his great surprise, the magister had nodded, and agreed to help him take care of it.  
  
Which of course, necessitated a Great Guildhall meeting.  
  
"So then, this is the agreement--Janos Slynt hereby renounces his membership in the honored and revered Guild of Butchers, and all rights and privileges thereof, save for the right of his children and their children to seek apprenticeship in the guild gratis, the aforementioned right lapsing if left unused for two generations," continued the scribe. He glanced out over the crowd. "Is this correct?" Janos nodded, as did several others. "Are there no objections?"  The Twenty-and-One were silent. The scribe spent several minutes jotting things down, then pushed forward a sheet of paper. "Your contract, sirs. Please sign."  
  
Janos walked forward, and put his name down. Ilyrio followed, and then came Tommen Brightflowers, and then one by one, the witnesses.   
  
"A shame about your father," said Kespar Glyn of the Butchers, as he signed. "I've been meaning to pay my respects, but..." He gave a nervous jog of his head.  
  
"I know," said Janos, with a sigh.  
  
After the penultimate witness signed, the scribe pulled the contract back, and signed himself, his elegant handwriting just below a rather ungainly mark. "Signed and witnessed by the Twenty-One, in the Light of the Lord, and the sight of the gods old and new," declared the scribe, striking the contract with his little hammer, as Loren and Azollo both made quick signs of sanctification before sitting back down. The scribe gestured for a candle. "I will seal this, shortly. But consider this matter officially closed. Welcome, Janos Slynt, to the great brotherhood of those who sell..." He glanced at Ilyrio Mopatis. "As for the magister, I do hope the... informality of this gathering did not offend."  
  
"I am... an adaptable man," said Mopatis, smiling. "Perhaps the next time though, your Guildhall will be usable, ehh?"  
  
The scribe quirked an eyebrow at that, as he dripped wax onto the contract. "That might take a while, sir. We've been waiting since the reign of Aegon III."  
  
Ilyrio blinked at that. "That sounds like... no small time."  
  
"Oh, merely a century and a half," said the scribe, wrinkling his nose. "Roughly. I'd give a more exact number, but then history was never my best subject at the Citadel."  
  
"You are one of the... chained men?" asked Ilyrio, his interest obvious.  
  
"No," answered the scribe, as he sealed the contract. He pointed to his unadorned neck. "I earned not a link of my maester's chain. But I learned to read and to write, and to do simple sums. And so I returned to the city of my birth, saddened and disappointed. If I could see the boy I was, I would tell him to be of good cheer. There is decent money to be made with those skills in the Guild of Scribes, and you're allowed to fuck." The barber gave a loud laugh at that. The scribe tucked the contract in a small satchel at his side. "Of course, if I had my way, we'd have a man at the Citadel looking for all the promising young lads who keep failing their exams, telling them that King's Landing can use them. And that despite what they might imagine, it's fascinating work that exercises the mind in ways the Citadel might fail to. Why, I who used to slave fruitlessly over tomes, have gone to write tomes on several arcane subjects that the maesters' deem below their notice. Not that anyone other than my fellow scribes read them, but still, they have been written, and bear my name."  
  
"What name is that?" asked Ilyrio.  
  
"Baelor of the Inkstone, to distinguish me from the king I'm named for," said the scribe, "though I fear if you mean to search for my work, you'll have little luck, and should you find it, the titles will scare you off." He gave a shrug. "I suppose I could try for something a bit more colorful than, say, _A Guide to the General Principles of Property Ownership and Bequeathals in King's Landing Common Law_ , but as you can see, I tend to favor the functional over the decorative in my prose. So it's perhaps best to be honest, hmmm?" He sighed. "Actually, I have a case in such a matter to hear shortly..."  
  
Ilyrio blinked. "You hear cases?"  
  
"Murder, rape, theft, and similar crimes are the provenance of the King's Justice," said Inkstone. "Lordly disputes and matters of property are the duty of the Master of Laws--though he also has a claim over the first group, as the King's Justice master. Matters of fees and tariffs and imports are for the dock inspectors--and their master, the Master of Coins. But personal property, held by the smallfolk--that is a grey and murky area. Or rather a greyer, murkier area. There--well, one can always go to the King, or the Hand, but few do. Especially over the last few years. It is so much simpler to just handle things between privately, with perhaps a well-trained adviser who can shift through precedence and custom and craft a settlement using them as his guide."  
  
The magister chuckled at that. "And the Crown lets you do that?"  
  
"The Crown, as a rule, does not care," replied Inkstone. "The Targaryens have tended to keep their eyes more on the great than the small, and as we keep them from having a constant supply of pig ownership disputes coming before the Iron Throne, they are content to ignore us." He gave a sigh and shook his head. "No, that is not completely true. Aegon the Fifth worked with us, and wrote a code for this city at the Guild's recommendations. I keep a copy with me. A sensible thing, which survived the Great Repeal that followed Summerhall. But then Aerys came to the throne and with him Tywin to the Hand. They did not like us, and so the Code was repealed. And having thus, to their minds, thwarted us utterly, they went back to ignoring us." Inkstone gave a shrug. "So it has always been for the Guilds. Aegon the Conqueror built this city, and then paid its inhabitants no heed. His eldest son followed his example--his second did not, and made all wish that he had. Then came Jaeharys, who raised the Great Guildhall, built the White Table that lay in the center for us, and bid the Guilds make the city prosper. For three-quarters of a century, we did. Then the Dance of the Dragons came, and the Hall was burnt. First the greens extorted our fellowships for funds--then the blacks--then the greens again. When it was all over, we were impoverished, and the Iron Throne continued to swear that they would of course, rebuild it as swiftly as possible. Aegon III showed a genuine interest, once he got free of his regents--but illness carried him away. His brother likewise had an interest--but the Young Dragon wanted a war, my namesake wanted his sept, and when Viserys finally got to the throne, he died in a fortnight. After that, the Dragons fell into a habit of either benign neglect or outright scorn. Meetings were held at the White Table for awhile, but then Aegon IV ordered it seized to amuse a mistress. And no one has seen it since."  
  
"My grandfather told me of it," whispered Brightflowers, who had sat there quiet as the scribe spun his tale. "All white it was, marble and weirwood--save for the face that stood for the old gods, which was red, and the images of the Seven, which were all in gold..."  
  
"One wonders what could be done for Rh'llor, if the thing were ever found again?" said Azollo of Myr, taking a sip of his drink.  
  
"Perhaps we could hoist some brazier over it, to stand for the fellow, ehh?" suggested Loren, as he poured another cup for himself.   
  
Azollo gave a cheerful laugh, and raised his glass. "May I state once again, Loren, that your Seven are the most amiable false gods I've encountered?"  
  
"Likewise to the Great Shining Lord," stated Loren, following the red priest's example. The pair clicked their mugs, and then took two great swallows.   
  
"As for me I must be off," said Inkstone. "The matter of Tanner versus Waters will not wait much longer. My decisions may be, as I've indicated, only a paper shield, but that is better than no shield at all."  
  
"May you handle it with skill, good Baelor," said Ilyrio quietly.  
  
"It is 'Baelor' only when I write a book," said the scribe, heading out the door. "In day to day matters, a simple 'Bael' suffices." And then, with a sprightly step, he was off into the approaching night.  
  
Ilyrio watched him leave and then shook his head. "So there is no Guildhall in this entire city?"

"Most of the guilds have a tavern or inn they meet in to serve such a purpose," noted Tommen Brightflowers with a shrug.  "A few have more elaborate buildings they've built if they can spare the coin..."  
  
Mollaro Deem gave an unsightly snort. "The Alchemists have something they call a Guildhall, but fuck those fucking fuckers." He spat. "They're no proper guild! What do those fuckers do? Burn things, and figure out ways to burn things worse. Again, fuck them!"  
  
Tommen glanced at him. "I've heard they can turn to lead into gold..."  
  
Mollaro laughed. "Oh, they say that a lot, them and their fucking kin on the other side of the Narrow Sea, but all that ever happens is they sing and they dance and they make such a fucking noise, and then, when it is over, the lead is still lead." He spat again. "Fucking alchemists. They don't make gold, they burn it up. We're the ones who make the gold. And do we get any fucking credit for it? Fuck, no. The fucking lords think it would cost too much to let us make them more money. Fucking fuckers."  
  
"One might wonder why..." began Ilyrio Mopatis.  
  
"Fuck you Pentoshi," declared Mollaro, glaring at the man. "I know the lies that will spill from your mouth, and so I say stick them back in there, before they are even uttered. There is no freedom in your Free Cities, save in the rebel daughter, and I will not give the fucking Braavosi any satisfaction by living there. Born in Volantis, I am Westerosi now, and fucking proud to live where a man is no man's fucking slave, even if one is a lord, and one is not."  
  
Ilyrio Mopatis stared at the man in clear suprise. "In Pentos..."  
  
"Fuck Pentos," said Mollaro. "When the Red Judgement comes, it will be scoured clean, same as Volantis and the rest, and all the lies it says to the Braavosi will not help it."   
  
There was an awkward silence for a moment. "Slavery is banned in Lorath," noted Azollo.  
  
Mollaro rolled his eyes. "Fuck Lorath. Ever meet a Lorathi who boasts of Lorath? No? Well, there's a fucking reason for that." He glanced around the room. "Where is everybody?"  
  
"They've been trailing out steadily for sometime, Master Deem," said Brightflowers.  
  
"Well, fuck this then," said the cooper, heading for the door. "I've fucking barrels to make." He glanced at Janos. "Congratulations on your endeavors. And thank you for seeing if you can do something for my fuckwit son Allar. It'd be nice to know he's useful for something." Mollaro gave one of his customary nods. "May the Lord of Light shine luck on your endeavors."  
  
Janos Slynt gave a nod back. He was a devout Seven man himself, as all the Slynts had been since their arrival in Westeros--save perhaps his grandmother, who Janos had vague memories of singing songs and praying prayers to some shepherd--but the followers of the Rh'llor were decent folk for the most part, and most had come out of Volantis and the east, same as his folk did.   
  
There were bonds that went beyond sept, temple or godswood. Guildsmen knew that in King's Landing, his father had always told him. That he'd been allowed to join the Sellers' Guilds was proof of that.  
  
Later that evening, in his own house, when he had put Morros and Aella and the baby to sleep, Janos heard something, as he passed by the large room that the magister was renting.   
  
"...say it! You have let yourself been blinded by these shining great lords, old friend. Things that would not have escaped your sight back in Pentos have..." came Ilyrio's voice.  
  
Janos knocked at the door. "Sir?" he asked quietly. "Are you all right?"  
  
There was a surprising amount of bustle, at which point Ilyrio's servant opened the door. The Pentosi lay on the extraordinarily luxurious bed he'd insisted on purchasing when he'd arrived. "Oh, yes," said Ilyrio, with an exaggerated nod. "I am simply thinking aloud. A habit, I am afraid, the empty halls of my manse in Pentos have instilled in me." He shook his head. "An amazing thing your Great Guildhall without a Great Guildhall. In custom, it is a strange hodge-podge of the Free Cities and Westerosi practices, with... something else. Something unique to this city. Quite fascinating." He gave Janos an apologetic glance. "I hope I do not offend you."  
  
"Of course not, sir," answered Janos.  
  
"Good. Good." Ilyrio laughed. "Ahh, Slynt, Slynt. I have great expectations of you." He shook his head, still smiling. "Great expectations."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of the above was written due to the fact that canon King's Landing seems to lack any sort of mercantile assembly, which would actually be quite remarkable for a medieval city. And so for this tale I offered my own fanon explanation--there is something there, but it's an ad hoc, cobbled-together mishmash with little to no official recognition, doing its business, holding its meetings with their own rituals and their own customs as the nobles more or less ignore them. 
> 
> Which, to my mind just oozes story potential.


	32. The Old Falcon

**THE OLD FALCON**  
  
The tension in the Small Council chamber was so thick, it seemed to Jon Arryn a knife could cut it, though it would go dull in the attempt. The King glared at the Hand, and the Hand glared at the King. "Lord Lannister," Stannis said at length, "I am finding the gap between your promises and your performance more and more irritating with every day."  
  
Jon Arryn flinched at that, even if he himself was sharing the feelings. _These constant relevations--there has been a 'mishap' near Silverhill. Oh, and by 'mishap', it appears that later reports have shown that the chief Lannister army in the region has been largely captured. But there is a new army heading to relieve them, under the command of his brother Tygett. Who has been sitting in Lannisport doing who knows what prior to this... what are the Lannisters playing at?_   
  
He shook his head. He could not let himself get carried away with his suspicions. The Stags needed the Lannisters to win this war, whatever the misgivings their actions filled his heart with. Who knows, perhaps it is but shame? He regarded the still form of Tywin, nostrils flaring, cheeks livid. Tywin the invincible, the brilliant, not so either at the moment...  
  
"Your Grace," stated Tywin at last, his words spoken with a cold dignity, "the haste of young men often causes them to misunderstand the caution of older men..."  
  
"This is the first time in my life I've been called over hasty, Lord Tywin," said Stannis quietly, grinding his teeth. "I find I do not care for it."  
  
"Your Grace!" said Ser Kevan rising to his feet. The Master of Laws glanced around the chamber. "We are all at edge here due to these ill tidings and blows of fortune, and none more than my brother, who has buried a goodbrother, and has another in durance..." He nodded fervently, and shut his eyes. "And two nephews as well. Let us not forget them. I myself count my goodfather among those captured. These blows strike us as strong as you. Perhaps more strongly."   
  
Grand Maester Pycelle stood up as well. "Indeed, Ser Kevan. You speak for all of us. Ill words do not serve any but our ene--"  
  
"Pycelle," muttered Stannis, "I thought I made it clear you were to speak only if I specifically sought your council."  
  
The aged Grand Maester gulped. "I... yes, yes, you did, Your Grace." A rather nervous smile spread over the old man's face.  
  
"Well?" asked the King. Pycelle swiftly sat back down, as Brynden Tully chuckled quietly. Stannis gave a relieved sigh, and looked over the Small Council. "Perhaps we should move onto another subject. Any news from my grandfather Baelor?"  
  
"He sends his regrets," muttered Lord Walter, sighing. "But this sudden illness has kept him at Greenstone."  
  
"Of course," muttered Stannis. "I would not expect him to move for his king and his kin. What do they count compared to Lord Baelor Estermont's bellyache?"  
  
"The Myrishman heading the fleet at Gulltown reports he has taken two Dragon ships," said Jon, hoping this good news might cheer the room.  
  
"Excellent," said Stannis, fingers tapping at the table, and teeth grinding. "If he keeps at this rate, we might be ready to move against Dragonstone in another six years or so."   
  
"He is doing Your Grace decent service," noted Ser Brynden. "One shouldn't expect a sellsail to perform prodigies. Every drop the Driftwood Fleet bleeds is a drop it cannot replace."  
  
"I can still hope for them to bleed quicker," snapped the King. "The trade they are costing us is no small thing!"  
  
 _They and Your Grace's tendency to seize large merchant vessels_ , thought Jon to himself, though he was careful not to say it aloud. "Speaking of Dragonstone," he stated instead, "discussion with the Masseys is going quite well. They are insisting on Sharp Point being the price of surrender, but their arguments there are quite good--the present Lord Bar Emmon has no children, and they are his closest kin..."  
  
"Tell them they may have it then, if they can get the Dragons out of it," muttered Stannis with a disgruntled shrug. "Why, if their opinion of their own blood is so low, there's half a dozen other keeps they may have if they can take them. Every Massey of age who wishes may then sit in their own little keep, and applaud themselves for making out so well in all this." He glanced at Ser Brynden. "Lord Commander--how stands our new Kingsguard?"  
  
"Ser Lyn Corbray has agreed to take the white," said Ser Brynden. "A formidable warrior, though not a pleasant man, I fear."  
  
Stannis raised an eyebrow at that. "Well, as I do not want him for his pleasantness, I see no objection there..."  
  
"Some might question allowing the man who killed Prince Lewyn a place," noted Jon quietly.   
  
"Some might question anything," replied Stannis. "To my mind it was an excellent start. Perhaps he will be so kind as to kill some of these other bothersome men in white cloaks who plague me so. Starting with the White Bull, and working his way down..." He glanced across the table at Lord Tywin again. "Lord Hand. You've been most distressingly quiet throughout these discussions. Have you no council for us?"  
  
"What can I say, Your Grace," replied Tywin softly, "that others have not already said?" He glowered at Jon Arryn. "Save perhaps to register my continuing surprise that the Masseys choose to deal with your... Master of the Great Seal, rather than your Hand?"  
  
"We have discussed this before," said Arryn glancing away. "The Masseys approached me, and have proven most insistent that things remain in my hands..." _You are not trusted, Lord Tywin. And given your history, how can you be surprised...?_  
  
Stannis stood to his feet. "Then, as we appear to be repeating ourselves, I call this meeting to an end. In summary--the Masseys are to be given Sharp Point, if it will make them do as they ought, my grandfather will not stir from Estermont on account of a bad belly, and the war in the west is once again on the verge of a glorious reversal in our favor, as it has been for every Small Council meeting we have held since I arrived in King's Landing. Now, as the High Septon has presently insisted I hear yet another petition from him, I must away." And then with a curt little nod, Stannis strode out of the chamber, followed by Lord Commander Tully. Lord Tywin sat there for a moment, frowning, and then rose to his feet, and walked out the room, his expression a bitter glare. Pycelle quickly followed him out, moving at a surprisingly swift totter, and then the three remaining members of the Small Council left the chamber together.  
  
Once Lord Walter headed off towards the mint, Jon Arryn found himself walking beside Ser Kevan as they wended their way through the halls of the Red Keep. "You did well, back there," said Jon at last. "Keeping the peace in the Small Council."  
  
"If that was peace," muttered Kevan, "I do not want to ever see the Small Council at war." He shuddered, and shook his head. "I am fast growing of the opinion that His Grace and his goodfather are best kept at a good distance from each other."  
  
"And yet, here we stand," noted Jon.  
  
"Indeed," agreed Kevan. He coughed. "I must thank you for allowing Ser Mandon Moore to stay in my service. He is proving a most effective Commander of the Gold Cloaks."  
  
Jon nodded. "A good, reliable man, Ser Mandon. Merely give him an order, and he does his best to get it done." The pair came to a branch in the hallways. "I believe we must go our own ways here. Best of luck to you, Ser Kevan."  
  
Kevan Lannister gave a nod, and headed away, while Jon Arryn walked to the small suite of offices that had been given to him. To absolutely no surprise, he found his young secretary hard at work there.  
  
"Lord Arryn," said young Petyr Baelish, with a bow. "How went the Council meeting?"  
  
"Better than the last," muttered Jon, sitting down. "Any news from across the Narrow Sea?"  
  
"Lys and Tyrosh have both sent their... best wishes," he noted. "But... nothing more definite. Oh..." Petyr turned and pulled out a large piece of paper from a stack that had accumulated at his desk. "And we have yet another emissary from Qarth."  
  
Jon sighed. "Is it Mathos Mallarawan's servant again?"  
  
"No," said Petyr, shaking his head. "This one claims to speak for something called the Tourmaline Brotherhood. Whatever that is."  
  
"Put it with the others," muttered Jon. _How many heads of state can a solitary city claim?_ He had to confess he was finding his supposed duties as 'Master of the Great Seal' both onerous and pointless. _What use is this? The Targaryens managed well enough without any sort of official head of chancelleries._ He sighed, and opened up the latest letter from Norvos, which he rather suspected was going to tell him that of course, the High Magister of Great Norvos respected the worthy Stannis, but... _Pretty words, and empty promises,_ he thought, casting the letter aside. _What better can you expect from the Free Cities?_ He glanced at Petyr and immediately chided himself. _This lad and his father show that not all are worms._  
  
Indeed, he was rather thankful for his lady wife recommending Petyr to him, when he had first mentioned the difficulties he was having at his position. _A lad who will rise_ , thought Jon, as he watched young Baelish flip through a stack of letters. It was good to see Petyr placing the folly that had marred his fostering at Riverrun behind him. _Poor lad. Still, a lesson that needed to be learnt. One can rise, yes, but not **too** far above one's station._   
  
But that was the past. In the present, young Baelish was proving an invaluable assistant. _And it cheers Lysa to know he's doing better now_ , thought Jon with a smile, as he returned to his work.  
  



	33. The Knight of Hounds

**THE KNIGHT OF HOUNDS**  
  
Tytos Clegane raised his hand as the server poured his drink. "Enough," he said, then gestured to another. "Now, water." The second server came forward, and filled the goblet. Tytos gave a nod, and sipped it. "Ably done," he said to the pair. "My thanks."  
  
"Such a courteous tongue our hound has," muttered Ser Alyn.  
  
Lady Jeyne Serret frowned at that. "And what says it when it is not the hound who is a cur, Ser Alyn?" she stated.  
  
Ser Tygett Lannister laughed at that. "A touch, my lady." Alyn glanced away, looking distinctly awkward.   
  
Tytos shook his head. "Leave young Ser Alyn be. I took no offense at that. Not truly." He sipped his drink. "An excellent vintage, I must say. Even watered down."  
  
Ser Creighton Longbough glanced across the table at that. "I must say, Ser Tytos, your temperance is a rare virtue," he noted, as he quaffed another large drink of wine. "Keep your wits about you for the coming battle, eh?" Ser Illifer the Penniless rolled his eyes, and then cut himself another slice of mutton.  
  
"Something like that," replied Tytos with a sigh. What little desire for spirits that was in Ser Tytos Clegane had been killed by watching first his father and then Lord Tytos drink themselves to death. His father had at least had a decent excuse, and a fairly decent death, by the standards of men who died pissing themselves, which was more than most realized. _He saw me a knight, before the end, and knew me, and wept for joy_. Tytos had wept as well, at that last meeting, though not from joy.   
  
Lord Tytos' death had been less decent. Nor had the weeks and months that lead up to it, as his lord spent his days going between the two poisons that were killing him--drink, and the girl he called 'Sweet Elspeth', who all else at the Rock called "Wicked Waxy Elsie". Tytos Clegane had been left to look after the ailing man alone throughout it all, as Tywin, Kevan and Genna spent their time at King's Landing, and Tyg and Geri enjoyed the Free Cities. There were times when Tytos felt he was the only one left around the aging Lord who loved the man, though his master kept referring to him as 'Tion', and on one occasion, 'Tywald'. _A sure sign he was going blind from the drink_ , thought Clegane with a scowl. Nelyse had tried to see her former lover several times, only for Elsie's brothers to bar Merry Nell's entry. _He should have married that woman, scandal be damned_ , thought Tytos. _Lord Tytos would most likely have lived another ten or twenty years, the whole Rock would have been spared Elsie, and Elsie would have been spared Tywin. A better outcome for all involved._   
  
Tytos shook his head. _I am getting old. I am starting to prefer the unpleasant past to the pleasant present._ He glanced up, and noted that Ser Creighton had wandered onto another subject. "...of the great houses," stated the hedge knight grandly, "but we Longboughs are an old one, with a distinguished history." Tytos supressed a chuckle. Yo _u old fraud,_ he thought indulgently. If he'd been in a place to have his pick of men, he rather doubted Ser Creighton and his partner would be among those he chose, but having had to take what he could get, he was not wholly disappointed in them. _Not the boldest of men, but then, boldness is not what an army in this situation needs. Ser Illifer is a man of good sense, and Ser Creighton... well, he cheers the boys. They may not believe he has performed the prodigies he boasts of, but he makes them believe they will go on to perform such things. And I'll dare say he knows it._  
  
"What are your words?" young Leyan Serret asked the hedge knight, the boy's eyes wide with wonder. Ser Tytos smiled to himself. There's one who believes it. And why not? He cares not if it's gold or brass. Simply that it glitters.  
  
"Few so fierce," answered Ser Creighton, chins wobbling almost magnificently.   
  
"How admirably modest of your family," drawled Ser Alyn.  
  
"Indeed," said Ser Tygett. "It's a virtue so rare among knights." Ser Alyn scowled quietly, and raised his goblet for another drink.  
  
The young heir to Silverhill turned to Ser Tytos. "And what about you, Ser Tytos? What are the Clegane words?" The boy stared at him.   
  
Ser Tytos shifted awkwardly. "Hardly worth remembering," he stated at last. "We're a young house, after all. Why--you look at the man who chose them."  
  
Leyan Serrett's eyes only went wider, while Garret Flowers turned to stare in surprise. "You wrote your own family's words, Ser?" muttered the chubby young hostage, swallowing half an apple cake.  
  
 _There's a lad who's not minding his captivity._ "Yes, but again, there's little remarkable about that..." muttered Tytos.  
  
"Just tell them, Tytos," said Tygett, with a grin. "Otherwise, the mystery will bother and torment them."  
  
"'Honor the quest'," said Tytos, with a sigh.  
  
The boys' eyes only went wider, and indeed the general expression of the company was quite favorable. "I say, Ser Tytos," declared Ser Creighton, "that's almost poetic it..."  
  
"It's something of a pun," muttered Tytos. The hedge knight looked baffled. "'Quest' is a term used in houndkeeping for a hunting pack," he explained. "My father earned his knighthood thanks to his courage, and the courage of three of his dogs." _Alys, and Cerretta, and Bold Black Betha_ , Tytos repeated to himself. "Thus, the Clegane words remind us both that honor is the thing we seek, and that we should honor the sacrifice of those who served us with distinction and bravery." He recalled Betha licking his cheek as a boy, and realized he had not thought of that in many long years.  
  
"You honor dogs?" said Alyn. His eyes were red, and Tytos found himself wondering how much the man had been drinking.  
  
"I honor dogs, and bold knights, and men-at-arms, and serving men, and smallfolk, and squires, and women who wait for husbands and sons that will not return, and yes, even villains and wretches who had courage and a bit of skill, if they had naught else," replied Tytos softly. "I honor my lord, and I honor my king, and I honor the Seven who are one, and I honor the old gods the First Men followed, and I honor my wife, and I honor my father and my mother, may they rest in peace. I honor, and I treat with respect the men who I serve and the men who serve me, and the men who serve with me, because that is the way of a knight, and it is the way to avoid having a man lose his temper, and driving his fist into your face to see if, perhaps, he can't break your jaw, or at least loose a few teeth." He raised one greying eyebrow. "Have I made myself clear, Ser?"  
  
Alyn seemed to fall back in his chair, looking abashed. "Better watch yourself, lad," said Tygett. "Ser Tytos Clegane seldom barks, and rarely snarls. When he does, it's a sign he's close to biting..." Tygett turned to Tytos. "Have I said it right, Ser?"  
  
"Indeed," said Tytos, raising his cup. "As my father liked to say, you may expect your dog to die for you. Not to lie." Tytos took a long swallow of his drink and set it back on the table.


	34. Cersei

**CERSEI**  
  
 _"Dark as a raven's wing,"_ said the old woman, and then Cersei awoke with a cry, glancing around desperately. As her mind cleared, she realized she was not in the tent, not a little girl anymore, but a woman grown, and a queen. _And queen to what a king_ , she thought bitterly, hugging herself and shivering in her bed. She felt queasy, and suppressed a wave of nausea as she rose to glance around the darkened room. She had drawn the curtains tight and thick, and thus had no idea what time it was, though it seemed quite dark. _Let us see... I had a meal, I went back to sleep, and..._  
  
Cersei shook her head. In truth her days and hours of late were of such a sameness that telling them apart was becoming all but impossible. She spent most of them in her rooms, sobbing, and sleeping, and eating the meals they sent her. She'd been tempted to send them back uneaten when she'd started this quiet protest, but she'd simply grown too ravenously hungry to avoid wolfing down the food in the end. _But that was simple foolishness. I'm not trying to kill myself with this. Merely to teach them a lesson._ Cersei picked up the cover of the dinner tray that sat by her bed, and noted with displeasure that it was still filled with the remnants of her last meal. The smell of stale grease was quite overpowering, turning her stomach, and so she slammed the cover down quickly. _Gods, what a stench..._  
  
She stood from the bed, and glanced around the room. _I've been in here too long. It's tiring me_. The last time she'd left had been to watch Jaime leave with the Northmen, and even then she'd stayed in the Red Keep, watching her beloved twin from a window, with the awful Eddard Stark by his side. I hope he freezes up there, she thought, biting her lip. She'd avoided seeing him off in person, to make him pay the price for his betrayal, but she simply needed one last look. She had gotten it, all right, watching him ride off from a great distance, unaware that she was watching. _He is so beautiful,_ she thought. _And now, now that beauty is going to be frozen and smashed and ruined up there in the awful, awful cold..._  
  
It occurred to her she didn't know just how long that had been. _I could ask a servant_ , she considered, then remembered that she'd ordered them from her chambers, to only come if she called them. _I suppose I could call one then. But what would they think if I called them, just to ask how long ago Jaime left?_ She shook her head, and sat back down. _They'd certainly think I was not well._ She hugged her knees, resting her chin on them, and rocked gently back and forth. _Perhaps I should go back to bed._  
  
A thunderous knocking started at her door. _Probably more gifts from my lord husband_ , she thought with a scowl. Stannis Baratheon was, she'd learned on their trip up to King's Landing, a relentlessly proper young man, who, for example, always politely sent his page to ask if Her Grace wished the presence of her husband in her chambers this evening. And on that trip, and up until his first court, she had always agreed. After that first court--well, despite what she expected, Stannis did not send young Balon to her door that night. Nor the next. But on the third, he had come, and she had said no. There'd been no pages for awhile after that--but then after he'd agreed to let her see Jaime before he left, they'd started again. But not to request the pleasure of her company--no, they came bearing gifts.   
  
First had come a necklace, silver and amber from the Stormlands. A pretty thing, actually, though hardly enough to earn her forgiveness. Other gifts had followed--a fine electrum mirror. A harp. A fine gown, though alas, in the Baratheon colors, which simply did not suit her. And after she had begun riding in preparation for her plan, there had been a fine saddle, a riding crop, and a book on riding. _Perhaps if I'd shown an interest in sailing, he'd have given me a boat. And then Jaime and I could have sailed it across the Narrow Sea together._ That brought a smile to her lips, though it vanished when she remembered her twin's cowardice. _If he'd only been a brave lion, we could have escaped together!_  
  
The knocking was getting louder. _Insistent little fool, this one_. "I am not feeling well," she declared, in what she liked to think of as her royal voice, a commanding, lofty voice like her lord father's. "Simply leave whatever it is you've brought outside the door, and I shall get it later."  
  
The knocking stopped. "Cersei," came the familiar commanding, lofty voice that made Cersei quail, "it is your father. Come, open the door."   
  
Cersei rose from her bed, quick as she could, and rushed to get a robe on. "I... coming, father. Simply... give me a moment..." She shrugged the robe on, and tied it hurriedly. "I... one moment." _I wish I had a servant here. This is so... bothersome..._ She moved to the door, and opened it. The expression on her father's face was so unpleasant that Cersei's stomach turned instantly, something she was sure Lord Tywin noticed. _I must really be a fright. I shouldn't have sent all the servants away. I should have kept one around to help prepare me for visitors._ "Father," she said at last, weakly.  
  
Tywin merely scowled as he entered the room. "Cersei, we must speak." He sniffed slightly, and glanced around the room, his scowl deepening. "You must end this foolishness," he said, crossing his arms. "Now."  
  
Cersei blinked, even as she tried to adjust her hair. _I am **the queen**_ , whispered a voice in the back of her head. _He should not speak to me this way_. "Fa... father, wh-what are you...?" was all the voice she could summon from her mouth said.  
  
"Do you recall what I told you when you were first betrothed to His Grace?" said her father, in the sort of voice that one used to speak to a backwards child. "Win his affection. Beguile him. Is this how you plan to do this?"  
  
"I... father, he..." Cersei bit her lip, and fidgeted. "You cannot make him... I can't change his mind..."  
  
"You have barely tried," snapped Tywin. "Is this how you serve House Lannister? By hiding in your rooms like a madwoman, and refusing to do your wifely duties?"  
  
"I... I haven't..." Cersei planted her hands defiantly on her hips. "Who told you this? Has Stannis sent you to...?"  
  
"Your lord husband has done no such thing," muttered her father, rolling his eyes. "Have your wits simply fled you, girl? It is all over the Red Keep!" He shook his head. "Indeed, it would not surprise me to know it was all over King's Landing." Her father's green eyes, flecked with gold, fixed on her, and Cersei glanced at her feet, feeling sick. "Gods, I thought you were your mother's daughter-- **my** daughter. Instead... Is this how I raised you, Cersei? To be a useless, twisted little fool? I thought the Seven had only sent me one such child."  
  
That sick feeling grew, to the point that Cersei had to grab her knees and breathe very quickly to avoid vomiting. _He is... he is saying I'm **like**... He cannot mean **that**... I... I am his dear daughter..._ She let loose a sob.  
  
Her father stood watching her with stony indifference. "Now, Cersei, here is what you will do. You will make yourself presentable--as you are most assuredly not at the moment--and you will go to your husband, and you will lie with your husband, and you will behave as a proper wife should. And then--then perhaps you will start to work at making him just a portion more tractable."  
  
Cersei glanced up at her father. "Bu... But, father... he... it... he... Jaime... I... you can't! You--!" Tywin stared at her for a moment as she blubbered. And then he calmly, coldly slapped her.  
  
"You will do this thing," stated Tywin, as he brought his hand back to his side. His eyes stayed on her filled with naked contempt.  
  
Cersei felt awkwardly at her face, her mind a tumult. _I am the queen! The queen! How dare he do this to **the queen**!_ came one voice. _He... he did not do this! I am his favorite! His golden daughter! The one he smiles at! He wouldn't hit me! He wouldn't!_ came another. _Nononononononononononononono_ , whimpered another voice, steady, and small and awful. "Suh... sorry," came the voice from her mouth. "Sorry, father. Sorry. I'll be good. So sorry."  
  
Tywin turned his gaze from her. "Get ahold of yourself. And then do as I said." Cersei nodded quickly, and her father left her chambers. As soon as Lord Tywin was gone, she fell to her knees, and sobbed, and was sick. And then she rose, and went to make herself presentable. She considered calling a servant, but she didn't want them to see the sick. Or, after taking a good look at herself in the mirror, her in this state. _No wonder Father despised me like this,_ she thought. _The way I look I do not deserve to be loved_.  
  
It took awhile, but Cersei at last made herself presentable, and emerged from her chambers to make her way to her lord husband's. _I am a lion. I do not fear lesser beasts. I am a lion. I am a lion. A lion._ Young Balon Swann, and her cousin, Lyonel Frey, were in the forechambers, and stared at her in surprise as she entered. She felt dizzy as they looked at her, but took a deep breath. _A lion. A lion. A lion._ "Tell His Grace the queen has come to enjoy the pleasure of his company."   
  
Lyonel rushed to her husband's bedchamber, while Balon stood there, shifting about awkwardly. "Would... would Her Grace care for a drink?" he asked timidly. Cersei shook her head, not trusting her voice to a reply. Lyonel emerged from the room, and gestured nervously for Cersei to enter. Cersei stepped forward, and walked into the chamber.  
  
Stannis lay in the bed, his expression at first puzzled, and then... well, she did not know what it was, but it was not warm with desire. I am doing this wrong. He hates me now. He hates me now the way father hates me now, she thought. She took a deep breath and remembered what Lord Tywin said. Smile at him. Charm him. Beguile him. "Hus-husband," she began smiling broadly. "How... good it is to s-see you..."  
  
Stannis rose, awkwardly from the bed, doing his best to cover himself with the sheet. "Cersei... what... why are you...?"  
  
Cersei suppressed an urge to vomit, which she realized would be most unseemly. _Smile, smile, charm, beguile,_ she repeated to herself. _I am a brave lion. I am a golden princess. I am lovely. He cannot hate me. He **can't**._ "I have been too long from... too long from my lord hus... too long..." But then, it all went wrong, and the words stuck her in throat, and she fell forward, and buried her head in the mattress, and sobbed long and hard. _I am pathetic. I am weak. He hates me._   
  
She felt a movement on the mattress, and then her lord husband was beside her. He simply sat there, for a long while, as she sobbed, but then, at last, he began, awkwardly, to stroke her hair. "Cersei, why have you come here tonight?" he asked at last.  
  
Cersei gulped and looked up at him. She did not see desire in his eyes, but she did not see hatred there either. "I... I have..." She sniffled and continued. "I have been too long from my lord husband's puh-presence." She sniffled again, and looked at him hopefully. "I hope... I hope this pleases Your Grace...?" Stannis looked away at that, his expression so pained that Cersei's stomach turned again. "I... do you not want me, Your Grace?" she whimpered.  
  
"Not this way," said her husband, sadly. "Cersei, why don't you return to your chambers, and tomorrow, we will..."  
  
Cersei's eyes went wide with horror. "No! He... Father will... I can't go back! Please let me say here!" _I sound like a little girl,_ she thought. _Begging nurse to protect me from the grumkins._  
  
Stannis gave a nod. "Very well." He shifted back, and Cersei clambered up on the bed. She remembered, briefly, nights when she and Jaime had shared a bed like this, for warmth and comfort, and no other reason, but that had changed many years ago. She curled into a ball, and shivered slightly. _What a little fool I've been. I doubt I will get any sleep here,_ she thought, before drifting off into slumber.  
  
She did not know how long she slept, but it all came again, the tent, Maggy the Frog, the cryptic croaks. "Dark as a raven's wing," whispered the old woman's voice, and then Cersei awoke with a scream. She sat up suddenly, dislodging an arm that had been placed protectively over her shoulders, an arm that she realized absently was Stannis'. It took her a moment to realize that she was in his chambers, and not hers, but then she remembered all, and her stomach did a flip-flop inside her. _No, no, not on the floor_ , she thought, glancing around for a chamber-pot. _She found one just in time to let her sick out into it_.   
  
"Cersei," said her husband groggily. "Cersei, what is wr...?"  
  
"Nothing, nothing, nothing," she repeated hurriedly. "Just... just a little sick..." And then she vomited again.  
  
Stannis rose from the bed, and went to get his robe. "I will send for Maester Cressen," he said.   
  
Cersei shook her head. "Py-Pycelle, should be Pycelle," she whispered, but she didn't say it loud enough, and soon she was vomiting again, while her husband called for his old maester.  
  
When Cressen came he was pleasant, and calm, and asked questions in a delicate way that did not shame her. _It still should have been the Grand Maester,_ Cersei thought, even as a part of her admitted that Cressen's hand did not linger in that slightly unsettling way Pycelle's so often did. Eventually, the old Maester nodded to himself.  
  
"What is it, Cressen?" said Stannis quietly. "Is it... anything serious?"  
  
Cressen smiled slightly at that. "In a sense. Indeed, in a very real sense the most serious thing of all." Cressen folded his hands. "Her Grace is with child."  
  
The room was silent for a moment. "With child," said her husband quietly. _No, no, no, no,_ thought Cersei, as Maggy the Frog's voice croaked _"Dark as a raven's wing,"_ in the back of her mind.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, Cersei got a somewhat different prophecy from Maggy the Frog here, which will be fully revealed in due time, though rest assured, it was both alarming, strange and vague in parts and resulted in poor Melara Hetherspoon going down a well.
> 
> Simple result of alternate universes of worlds that allow a veiled knowledge of the future, in the end.


	35. The Black Bat in White

**THE BLACK BAT IN WHITE**  
  
"Your Grace," begged Lord Alester Florent as the guards dragged him before Viserys Targaryen's throne, "Your Grace, you must understand this has all been a misunderstanding."  
  
Ser Oswell glanced at the king. Young Viserys perched on the small throne he'd been given by the Tyrells wearing the crown of red gold done in the shape of a circling dragon that had come from the merchants of Oldtown, radiating an eerie sense of command. He studied the Lord of Brightwater Keep through heavily-lidded eyes, hands stroking the scarlet dragon's egg that Lord Velaryon had gifted him. The 'Admiral of the Narrow Sea' was not in the court to see his nameday gift to the King being appreciated--among the favors it had won him was a prominent naval command in the upcoming campaign, and so he was in Oldtown with his newly granted ships--but his bastard brother Aurane Waters was enjoying it in full, standing on the king's left, even as Obara Sand stood on his right, spear in her little hand.  
  
_My sovereign holds court flanked by bastards,_ thought the Kingsguard. _There is something ominous in that._ Indeed, there was something ominous in the king's manner. It should have looked ridiculous, a boy of nine wearing a little crown, cradling a large egg in his hands, while seated on a chair and flanked by children a little older than himself. But instead it looked imperious, and savage, and terrifying. _His lord father would have given anything, to have been able to sit like that. This boy knows he is a king._ Ser Oswell glanced at Lord Florent, still begging pathetically for his life. _And this man knows it too._  
  
At last, Viserys raised a hand. "Lord Florent," he said, in his light, boyish voice, "I am confused. My Hand, who is your goodson, tells me you are a traitor." The king gestured at Oberyn Martell. "The Prince Martell, my Master of Laws tells me likewise. As does the Lord Steward of Highgarden." Viserys shook his head. "I am very young and perhaps confused. But it sounds to me as if you are saying that these good men, who are the pillars of my government, members of my Council of Regents, are all liars. And that you alone are telling the truth."  
  
Alester gulped. "I... I... that is not what I am saying, Your Grace. Merely that... that they have been misinformed..." He glanced around the room desperately. "I... it was Axell! My brother!  
  
"Who is conveniently dead, from where you stand," muttered Garth Tyrell.  
  
Lord Florent continued to speak, ignoring the Lord Seneschal's comments. "He was acting by himself! I knew nothing!"  
  
"Sadly for you, that is not what he told Lord Tarly, before being hung as a traitor," said Prince Oberyn quietly. "Further, there are letters in your hand detailing your plot, the confession of your son, Alekyne, that you spoke to him of gaining the Reach for House Florent, which has been confirmed by your nephews Sers Imry and Erren, your niece Selyse, and your brother Ser Colin."  
  
Lord Alester glanced at his kin, eyes flashing briefly with hatred, before shifting into sheer desperation. "I..." He glanced around the court. "I... this..." The Lord of Brightwater Keep glanced around desperately for solace. "Lord Steward..." he said, at last, approaching Garth Tyrell. "Lord Steward, we were friends of old..."  
  
"That is news to me," said Garth, fiddling idly with his robes.  
  
"Will you let me be done to death in this manner?" whimpered Alester Florent. "Do you have not a single kind word to speak on my behalf?"  
  
Garth Tyrell broke wind, loudly. "None I can think of," said the Lord Seneschal, with an expression that so lofty and dignified, one was left with the impression he was intentionally trying to make Lord Florent's situation as ridiculous as possible. Much of the court was laughing at this, though the King and Regent Martell both allowed themselves only slight smirks, and the Queen of Thorns merely gave a snort. The Lady Alerie was an exception--the Young Lady Dowager, as she was called, glanced away, her eyes pained, and whispered something into the ear of Ashara Dayne, who nodded, and escorted her from the room. _And who knows when we will next see them in these chambers?_ thought Ser Oswell. _Not that I blame them, poor gentle souls._ He glanced at Ser Barristan, who was also watching the pair leave. _Nor would I blame him if he followed. Sworn brother or not._  
  
In truth, the absence of the two ladies would hardly be noted in the swelling throng of this court--it seemed almost every Dragon noble of age not heading out for the campaign had come to see the Florents be humiliated, save Lord Celtigar, who'd been suffering from loose bowels over the last few days. And now Lord Alester had to watch as they all laughed at him. He was fast realizing that no help for him was coming, and so at last turned to Viserys. The young king eyed the lord, his expression filled with contempt.  
  
"My father would have had you burned," whispered Viserys. "But this was a mistake of his. It is for Targaryens to be given to the fire. To allow scum such as yourself the same honor is to shame my forefathers." He glanced imperiously at the court. "I sentence you, Lord Alester Florent, to the traitor's death."  
  
Alester fell to his knees, tears in his eyes. "Oh, mercy, Your Grace, mercy, mercy, mercy..." he bawled.  
  
"Very well," said the king, with a roll of his eyes. "I will have you beheaded. It is a quick death, and a better one than you deserve, you loathsome treacherous coward." Lord Alester threw himself on the ground, and began to babble nervously, alternating pleas with thanks, until at last the guards dragged him from the chamber. Viserys watched him go with a frown, idly stroking his dragon's egg, and then turned to the other Florents. "Alekyne Florent. Ser Imrys. Ser Erren. Ser Colin. All of you have confessed to plotting in Lord Alester's treason, by which you meant to undermine my rule, destroy my leal subjects and your own lawful lords, the Tyrells, and see your own House rise in its place. For these severe crimes, you deserve death as much as Lord Alester--but as I am a merciful king, and you have freely confessed to these crimes, you will be allowed to take the black, if you so wish it."  
  
Most of the Florents nodded dully at this, with young Alekyne thanking His Grace for his kindness. A tall young woman with the distinctive jug ears of the Florents and a hard plain face already showing a distinct trace of a mustache gave a harsh laugh. "And now you wretches see what comes of betraying His Grace Viserys Targaryen!" she shouted. Ser Oswell frowned. A knight was supposed to revere and respect women, but the young Lady Selyse was a difficult woman to even like, with a soul uglier than her face, which was in no way beautiful. She alone of the Florents had reported on her kin without being arrested, including not only her uncles and cousin, but her own brothers as well--and the reason why was obvious. _To be Lady Selyse is little enough, but to be the Lady of Brightwater Keep, that would be a great thing._ The Kingsguard shook his head. _This has been an ugly war, and it is like to remain so._  
  
Viserys sat back in his chair, looking at the crowd dispassionately. "As both the Lord of Brightwater Keep and the heir of his body are now attainted traitors, it falls to the crown to decide where it will fall--a task made most difficult by the treachery of so many of its members. Fortunately, a loyal Florent of close descent exists." A slight smile came to the young King's face. "Thus, we grant Brightwater Keep, its lands and its income to the Lady Melessa Florent, and her heirs and descendants."  
  
Selyse's face went wide in shock. "Y-your Grace!" she said suddenly. "I... you... this..."  
  
"Does the Lady Selyse have an objection to the Crown's ruling?" said the king mildly.  
  
Ser Oswell watched Selyse stumble at this, clearly at a loss. _And who can blame her?_ Her cousin Melessa was the wife of Randyll Tarly, young Viserys' Hand, one of the Regents--her heirs the son and daughter she had borne him. _Lord Tarly has done well for himself in this..._  
  
"N-no, Your Grace, I... it is..." Selyse Florent coughed. "I... I had heard that... the Crown has plans for... a great marriage for me." The hard face softened as much as it was able, the desperation plain.  
  
"Indeed," said Viserys. "My regents have spoken with the Starry Sept, and what they have heard is most encouraging. The Septa Hallyse having passed on..."  
  
Selyse Florent blinked in surprise. "The Starry... Hallyse... Your Grace, I... You... I do not follow your meaning..."  
  
"The Starry Sept has agreed to make you head Septa of the Maidenshrine," declared the king brightly. "It is a great honor! Why, you will be counted among the Most Devout, wear rich cloth of silver, enjoy a fine set of quarters in which to contemplate the mysteries of the Seven..."  
  
Selyse gulped. "But... I was... there was... I thought I would get a marriage! A great marriage!"  
  
"And I am marrying you to the Gods!" said Viserys. He shook his head, smiling broadly. "There is no grander marriage than that I could give you!"  
  
"Indeed, Your Grace," said Prince Oberyn, with a snicker. "In truth, I would argue that is a finer marriage then the lady would get in the general run of things..." Garth Tyrell chortled at this, and chuckles and bursts of laughter echoed through the hall--even the Queen of Thorns smiled. And then Ser Oswell found it quite easy to pity Selyse, even if he could not revere and respect her, as she stood there, alone, trying to fight back tears. _Cruel, cruel, all too cruel,_ he thought.  
  
Viserys eyed her imperiously. "So, what say you? Do you accept this offer?"  
  
Selyse Florent gulped. "I... thank Your Grace," stated Selyse, "and humbly accept his bountiful generosity to my humble person." She bowed her head, and then retreated into the crowd.  
  
"Excellent," declared Viserys. "With these treasons dealt with, and these rewards for leal service handed out, I declare the business of this court done." He cradled his dragon's egg in his left hand, even as his right went to Prince Oberyn's gift to him, a fine blade of Dornish steel. "May the Seven guide us to victory in the days ahead!" he declared, drawing the blade, and raising it to the heavens, "Let us show our foes fire and blood!"  
  
"Fire and blood!" shouted the court as one.  
  
Viserys sheathed his blade as he walked out of the room, Garth Tyrell and Prince Oberyn before him, Aurane and Obara at his sides, and Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan following close behind. "You did very well," declared the Prince.  
  
His natural daughter nodded fervently. "You were so kingly back there," said Obara, eyes wide with admiration.  
  
"I am a king," replied Viserys, smiling. "It comes easy enough." He glanced over his shoulder at the two Kingsguards. "What thought you of that, Sers?"  
  
Ser Oswell struggled with his response, but as usual these days Ser Barristan Selmy had no such trouble. "Your Grace, it is not for me to dictate the business of kings," said his Sworn Brother. "But were it I... I would have been kinder to the Florents."  
  
Viserys scowled. "They were traitors. And worse than traitors, fools. Lord Florent made an utter ass of himself, with his lies and his begging. And that niece of his..." The boy shook his head. "You should have heard the lies she told to gain favor. She even had them sacrificing a boy in hope of favors from the old gods." He shook his head. "No, they were traitors through and through, even to themselves. There is no good in showing mercy to that sort--they simply find a new way to betray your trust later."  
  
"Your Grace is very wise for his age," said Garth Tyrell, with an approving nod.  
  
Ser Oswell frowned. _His Grace says the things you and the Red Serpent put into his mouth well is what you mean, Lord Steward._ It pained him to see men such as these standing at the forefront of the Dragon government--Oberyn Martell's reputation was dark as midnight, and as for Garth Tyrell, well... _Men laugh and chuckle at Garth the Gross, and why should they not? He gives them so much to amuse themselves with._ But check beneath the surface, with all the stories of the jolly fat man suffering from bad wind, and a harder man emerged to the eyes. During the War of the Ninepenny Kings, old Lord Redwyne, the Lady Olenna's brother, had been captured by the pirate Nine Eyes. As Ser Oswell heard it, the Lady Dowager had been on the verge of paying his ransom, when the Lord Seneschal said 'With that coin, we could buy back one brother--or enough swords and sails to send this pirate king and all his crew to their graves many times over.' And so Lord Redwyne had remained Nine Eyes' guest for over a year, while Tyrell ships demolished the Ninepenny Kings' fleets.  
  
_With men such as that to serve as his teachers..._ Ser Oswell regarded the King levelly. "Nonetheless, Your Grace, mercy is a great thing for a king to have," he declared, "the same as a knight."  
  
"And there will be mercy, for those who bend the knee, and who are good and loyal men at heart, but misled for the moment," said Viserys, his purple eyes bright. "Men such as your brother, and his sons.  Why, I shall even let Lord Baratheon go to the wall, and let his brother be Lord of the Stormlands in his place. But others--Lord Tywin Lannister will die. Die in agony. By my own hand, if I can manage it. He had his son kill my father, it is only fitting House Targaryen return the favor." The young king's mouth became a hard line--so hard, it was almost easy to forget one was looking at a child. "My father told me much of Lord Lannister. For whatever may be said, he was a man of the blood of old Valyria, my father, and he knew things. He always told me I would be king after him. And he told me of Tywin Lannister's vanity, and cruelty, and pride. Told me that Lord Lannister had feigned friendship with him to gain power over the Iron Throne. Had poisoned his reign. Stolen his glory. Plotted against him. Taken the people's love. Done so many things that a king cannot forgive." Viserys shut his eyes, and nodded, hands stroking his dragon's egg. "And I will not forgive them. My father may have feared Tywin Lannister, but I do not. He has awoken the dragon. And the dragon shall show him fire and blood."  
  
As Ser Oswell Whent looked at the boy, he realized that the young King most assuredly meant it.


	36. The Khal

**THE KHAL**  
  
The khalasar had moved through the great sea of the Dothraki towards Vaes Dothrak with a slowness born of hesitation. It did not have to be so. The young man knew this for a fact, had seen Khal Bharbo make it move with a speed so great it seemed to fly over the ground. Not that Khal Bharbo would do this ever again. For his father was dead, and now he, Drogo, the only living child of that great man's body, was the Khal in his place, taking his father's khaleesis to Vaes Dothrak to join the dosh kahleen, and to let the Dothraki know of Bharbo's passing at the hands of Khal Khaggo, who he himself had slain in turn, in that great battle near the demon road, where the line of Khaggo had perished from the earth.  
  
That is, if these dark tales he was hearing were not true. _As they cannot be,_ he kept telling himself, even as a quiet dread took a deeper place in his heart with each new version of the story. That was why he had left the khalasar, and now rode his fastest horse to get a single look at Vaes Dothrak, the sacred city, in the most sacred of places. It had all begun a month ago, after the burning of his father's body, that Khal Bharbo could ride now with the Great Stallion through the heavens. "He rides now in the only khalasar greater than his own," had sang the great khaleesi of the khalasar, his mother Drohisi, and as she sang it, Drogo had hoped, idly that Bharbei rode alongside their father now. _I slew Khaggo, just as I slew Jhaggo's bloodriders,_ he thought, hoping that their spirits saw this up in the heavens. A _nd then I slew Khaggo's bloodriders, with the help of my own. The line of Khaggo is ended, down to the blood of his blood._ And when the time had come to give the villains mounts for the afterlife, Drogo had chosen wretched, fleabitten mounts from their herds, and hobbled the horses before killing them. L _et them ride forever in shame and ignominy, marked always as the scum they were. It is no less than they deserve._  
  
And with that, Drogo, now Khal Drogo, until he could no longer ride, which he hoped meant when death took him, had begun the trek to Vaes Dothrak, to give up his mother and his father's three other khaleesis to the dosh khaleen. This was a great undertaking, for Khal Bharbo had been the greatest Khal yet living, whose khalasar, at twenty thousand warriors, was the largest held by any khal in these times. Of course, in the ancient past, Khal Mengo's had been larger, and Khal Moro after him, and Khal Horro, after him. A wry smile came to his face, for it occurred to him there was little chance of forgetting that fact while he traveled with the Khaleesi Issei, his father's second wife (though she had been married to Khal Bharbo before Drohisi) frequently boasted of her descent from these men and of their great deeds. This was largely because Issei had little else to boast of--her father's khalasar was a small, stunted thing that his father's had absorbed upon Khal Issmoro's death, and Issei had given Bharbo no children, only stillbirths and bloodbirths. "Issei's womb is as barren as her wits," his mother had told Drogo once, in private, and he had laughed, though quietly. In truth, these were little things to boast of--countless were the Dothraki in who the blood of Khal Mengo and his son flowed--Bharbo himself was a descendant, and he had been of no account at his birth, a humble herder of goats in his youth, until he had dared take up the arakh--and as for Harro... Well, Khal Harro had been a great Khal, in many ways, but few forgot that it was he who had killed Khal Moro, and ended the line of Mengo in its male branches, which had lead to the undoing of Mengo's great work. The great khalasar that Mengo had built had split then, and it would only be reunited, the dosh khaleen had said, by the Stallion Who Mounts the World.  
  
The trip across the Dothraki sea had been uneventful, at first, until they met the caravan. Drogo had stopped it for his khalasar's share of the gifts that were to be granted for the privilege of crossing the Dothraki sea unmolested, and had been given them, in distressing plenitude, for this was a caravan of the East, and yet it bore the spice wines and fine jade that such a caravan would be taking to Vaes Dothrak, while it was going from it.  
  
"In truth," said the Qartheen who led the caravan, "we recommend you do not go there, for your fellows in the city now run mad, or so we have heard, working great slaughter in the Markets. Men and women are cut down where they stand, and blood flows through the streets."  
  
"You lie," said Haggo, his bloodrider, and also the son of his father's brother. "It is forbidden to shed the blood of free men in Vaes Dothrak. No Dothraki would break this."  
  
The Qartheen grew very pale, always an accomplishment for one of the milk folk, for Haggo was among the largest of men, if perhaps not among the most quick-witted, and said, in a small voice, "I only repeat what I have heard, from a merchant like myself, who saw it being done. Like me, he returns from your sea with the full cart he came with." And Khal Drogo had thanked him for this news, and the khalasar and the caravan had parted their ways on the Dothraki sea.  
  
"That man lied," said his bloodrider Qotho, whose father Qaro had been bloodrider to Khal Bharbo. "You should have given him to me. I would have made him tell us the truth, and tell us why he said such filthy nonsense." Drogo did not like Qotho, who was cruel when he had no need to be, and had once told his father this, when he was a boy. And Bharbo had laughed gently and said, "It is not for you to like him, my son, even if he is blood of your blood, and indeed I cannot blame you for thinking so. It is for your enemies to fear him, and that you must always remember." And indeed, when he had seen Qotho had cut down Khaggo's bloodrider Noro, who had killed Qaro, and then the bloodrider Morogo, in that battle near the demon road, Drogo had known the wisdom of his father's words.  
  
"He gave us gift, as is custom," said his bloodrider Cohollo, who had been his mother's protector before he was born, and had been sworn to Drogo when he was babe. "Would you have us be honorless dogs, Qotho?" Drogo liked Cohollo, who had taught to him ride, and to fight, and to bring honor to his line, and who had saved his life, first when he was a child, and many times since then.  
  
"What reason had he to lie, Qotho?," noted Drogo quietly. "You saw his cart. Full as he said, and not with the things of the west a merchant of the east would seek. No. There is some truth at the bottom of what that man said--or he thinks there is."  
  
"Who can tell with the milk men?" muttered Qotho. "Their minds are all walls upon walls." But then he was silent on the matter.  
  
The next caravan they met told a similar story, though in theirs it was a group of slaves that had set it all off. "Valyrians, from Mantarys," said the merchant, a man from Yi Ti. "Their leader, a three-headed freak, means to create a new Freehold on the ashes of Vaes Dothrak." The caravan after that, however, had claimed that a god, brought back by Khal Osso who had been making war in the north with great success, had sprung to life when placed in Vaes Dothrak, and run through the city, slaying all with a terrible lash. And the caravan after that had stated that it was mad old Khal Preisoo, called by many 'The Headtaker' for his habit of hanging the heads of the slain from his saddle, who had brought a bloodmage with him, and worked a terrible spell to kill all his enemies, in a wicked attempt to make himself the Stallion Who Mounts the World, which had first made the waters of the Womb of the World turn to blood, and then sent evil spirits throughout the city. All these tales were told as reported to the merchants by witnesses, but not yet had the khalasar met anyone who had actually seen Vaes Dothrok.  
  
The last caravan they met had seen the city. "We did not go there, great Khal," said its leader, a Tyroshi whose hair was dyed a bright red, and whose mustache and beard were dyed a bright green. "For coming within sight of it, we saw much that made us wish to flee it. Death stalks Vaes Dothrak now. Bodies lay in the streets, blood was everywhere, the men we saw rushed about bearing weapons, and there were fires. But as to the cause of it--well, we do not know if it was bloodmagic, or slaves, or madness, or what. We did not linger to find out. And we recommend, oh Khal, that sacred duty or no, you do as we have done, and flee that place."  
  
Khal Drogo had visited his mother then to speak of this with her and the other khaleesis, Issei, and young Meirei, third wife in status, but his father's most recent khaleesi, younger than Khal Drogo himself, and pale-haired Relleya, mother of Bharbei, who was the daughter of a Prince of Pentos and a maid of the fields, and had been given to Khal Bharbo as a gift by that city.  
  
"The khaleesis of a dead Khal must go to the dosh khaleen," proclaimed Issei grandly.  
  
"So it has always been," said Meirei quickly, glancing away from Khal Drogo.  
  
"And it has also always been that no blood could be safely shed in Vaes Dothrak," said Relleya quietly, Relleya, who his father had respected above all his wives save Drohisi, despite her lowly status, and who was his mother's dearest friend.  
  
Drohisi nodded. "Indeed. If these tales be even close to the truth, then much has transpired that should not." Drohisi stroked her chin thoughtfully. While she did not boast of her bloodline in the manner of Issei, Drohisi could trace her descent back to Khal Loso the Lame, one of the greatest of the khals to arise after the great khalasar of Mengo had shattered, and in wiles even greater than he. In his mother, that blood showed, for she was clever and wise in all things. His father had always abided by her council, and as he told his son, he had never regretted it. "We should camp here," she said at last, "and send a rider ahead, to go to a place where Vaes Dothrak may be glimpsed. One man on a fast horse can outpace a khalasar. If Vaes Dothrak be safe, he will return, and we will go there. If not... then we will consider things." His mother gave him a lofty bow. "What say you, oh Khal?"  
  
"This is the thing we shall do," he said. "And I shall be the rider."  
  
His mother and Relleya looked alarmed at this. "That is most dangerous," muttered Relleya.  
  
"You are the Khal," said Drohisi.  
  
"And the fastest rider in this khalasar," said Drogo.  
  
"But if something should happen..." his mother continued.  
  
"It will not," said Drogo. "The Great Stallion rides with me." He shut his eyes. "I... it may be something terrible, beyond all counting has happened. This being so, I would have one last look on the sacred city."  
  
His mother was silent at that, and gave a single nod. And so Drogo had them prepare his fastest horse--the pale brown that had been his father's gift to him on the day he became a man--and headed towards Vaes Dothrak. His bloodriders wished to ride with him, but Drogo had convinced them that he had need to do this alone.  
  
He had rode for a day now, with only a few breaks to give his steed and himself time to rest. And now... now he was within distance of Vaes Dothrak, could see the great horse gates...  
  
And see the smoke rising from the city, the smoke from either one great fire, or half a thousand large ones. _This cannot be. It is the sacred place--the Womb of the World. The first man arose here, with the first stallion. In time, all khalasars will be gathered here, to follow the Stallion Who Mounts the World._ Drogo turned his mount, and rode up a tall hill for a better look.  
  
The fires were clearer from here, as were the bodies. Drogo did not see a single living soul from where he stood. Nor was he sure he would wish to. He turned and began to ride back. _I have seen a great and a terrible thing on this day,_ he thought, and shuddered.  
  
That night, as he prepared his bedroll, he was certain he would have dreams of horror, sent by demons and ghosts. But instead, he dreamed of sunny skies and gentle winds, and of an easy ride. He was seated on his father's great black horse, with dear Bharbei, her pale hair streaming behind him as they rode. Their father guided the horse, smiling, and they nestled at his side. "Look!" said Khal Bharbo, gesturing ahead. "Look my jewels!" The children did so, and gaped in wonder at the great walls of Qohor. "This is the work of the dragon men," Khal Bharbo whispered to them, "who were lords of this place before Khal Mengo was even born."  
  
"They must have been great khals in their day," said his sister, in awe.  
  
"Great khals," agreed his father. "Great khals, who rode dragons in place of horses." _This is a memory_ , Drogo realized, as he leaned back against his father, and felt the comforting warmth of his sides. _I dream of the past_. And then he awoke.  
  
When he rose, the sun was rising, but a few stars still shone in the sky--two that lay close together seemed particularly bright to Khal Drogo's eyes. _I thank you, Great Stallion, for this vision. And I thank you father, and sister, for your wisdom, and hope that when the day comes that we ride together, you will not find me unworthy of that great company._ And then he began to ride back once again.  
  
On his return, a day later, Khal Drogo rode into the camp, and returned to his mother and the other khaleesis. He told them of what he had seen, and he told them of the dream. "I think... it is a message," said Drogo quietly. "I think father and my sister were telling me... to go west."  
  
Drohisi stroked her chin at this. "I must consult with the gods," she said. "They will tell us if you have interpreted the omens correctly." She walked back to the khaleesis' tent, followed by the others, and closed its curtain. Drogo turned his back, and shut his eyes, for the magic of women was not for men. For an hour, his mother and the others chanted. And then the tent opened, and his mother emerged, and they spoke.  
  
Drogo called his bloodriders and his kos, and as many of his warriors as could hear to him, and spoke, from the back of his mount. "People, I have looked on Vaes Dothrak, and the dark tales are true--a great and a bloody doom has come upon that most sacred of places, and I fear it would be death to go there." A cry arose from his people, a long and a mournful wail, as even hardened warriors burst into tears at this knowledge. "And yet the gods have not abandoned us. The voice of Khal Bharbo himself spoke to me, with a message from the Great Stallion. We are to turn and ride into the west. There, we will find what we seek." He looked out amongst the Dothraki. "I, Khal Drogo, say we will do this thing. Who will ride with me?"  
  
For a moment, there was silence. And then Cohollo spoke. "I, who am blood of your blood, will ride with you."  
  
"As will I," said Haggo.  
  
"And I," said Qotho.  
  
"And I!" proclaimed Kho Wai. "I will ride with Khal Drogo, wherever he will lead."  
  
"I will ride with him!" said another kho.  
  
"We will all ride with him!" said another, a doughty man with six sons.  
  
The chant began among the khalasar. "We will ride with him! We will ride with him! We will ride with him!"  
  
And so the next day, with the rising of the sun, the khalasar of Khal Drogo, youngest and greatest of the Dothraki khals yet living, turned and headed into the west.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of my readers wondering what just happened, and how it all ties back to what's happening in Westeros, well, all I can say is that all shall be revealed in due course. Simply put, the idea came to me, and as I realized my original plan to have it all happen offscreen would be... well, irritating as hell to write, Drogo got a storyline of his own. And now that you've had a glance at what passes for my creative process, I hope you'll stay with me.


	37. The Dark Lady

**THE DARK LADY**  
  
Chataya lay still on the bed, and listened to the man beside her breathe, taking care to remain silent.  He did not like pillow talk, this man, something he'd made clear the first time they'd coupled, many years ago now.  Already an expert at the arts of love, she'd demonstrated that by doing exactly as he desired, even in this.  And perhaps this was why she had remained so long, when so many of his others had been discarded, after a year, a month, a single night. And why she held a small portion of his trust, when the others had not.  
  
"You may wish to consider selling this place, in the near future," he said casually.  
  
Chataya blinked and turned.  This was a rare occurrence, and a signal to say something, for while he did not as a rule like conversation, when he initiated it, he expected responses.  "Indeed?  And why is that, my Lord Hand?"  
  
Tywin Lannister regarded her with his gold-flecked green eyes.  "My goodson is apparently possessed of the notion that he is Daeron the Young Dragon and Baelor the Blessed combined in one man.  And so I must not only listen to him tell me how to fight a war, I must listen to him discuss plans to expel whores from King's Landing."  He gave a rumbling snarl, and shook his head.  
  
"Young men are often impetuous," she said, "and prone to see simplicity when they should see... complexity."  
  
"I know this," snapped Tywin.  "Must you parrot what is obvious to all?"  
  
"I merely seek to comfort you, my lord," said Chataya quietly.  "And to remind you that others are doubtless aware of your wisdom and experience, and how they may aid in correcting the king in his... youthful enthusiasm."  
  
Tywin snorted at that.  "Enthusiasm?  No, not a word for young Stannis.  He does not have whims and enthusiasms, this boy, he has dictums and opinions that have been set in stone."  He shook his head.  "Lord Arryn and I have managed to get him to hold off on closing the brothels till after the war, but he seems utterly taken with the idea.  He even rejected a compromise I put forth to..."  He sighed and rolled his head.  "That is immaterial, now.  I recommend you sell this place."  
  
Chataya nodded.  In her long dealings with Lord Tywin, she was used to such orders, given suddenly and loftily, with no thought as to her opinions or present circumstances. Indeed, she had half expected he would come bearing one along with himself through the secret passage, after she had received the coin that she had not had gotten for over three years now, the coin with a golden hand on it, the coin she had been expecting since the streets had run red with blood and Lannister cloaks.  
  
Her mind flashed briefly on the last time she had gotten the coin, when the news of young Ser Jaime joining the Kingsguard circulated the streets.  That time he had been silent and brutal, as she had been expecting, as he so often was.  Lord Tywin Lannister was a man who went to women such as her in an eternal effort to excise some part of himself, for a night, or an hour at least, something he despised as weakness.  There were such men everywhere, even in the Summer Isles of her birth, though less than here in Westeros, and Chataya had learned to please even them.  For a night, or an hour, at least.  _If he were a man less proud, I could teach to simply accept that darkness within him, instead of trying to destroy it this way.  I could tell him that what he does only makes it stronger._ But then, if he were the sort of man she could tell such things to, he would not be Tywin Lannister, in all his awful magnificence.  
  
"And where will I go then, my lord?" she asked quietly.  "After I sell this place?"  
  
"Wherever it is that whores go," replied Tywin casually.  "Oldtown, or Gulltown. Across the Narrow Sea to Lys, or Tyrosh, or Braavos, if that pleases you.  Perhaps to White Harbor, if you can stand the cold.  Or back to your home, if that is your pleasure."  
  
Chataya nodded, noting that one city was most assuredly not named in Tywin's list, and that city was Lannisport.  _So this is how it ends,_ she thought.  _Kinder than I thought it would be.  The gods be praised for small miracles._  
  
Lord Tywin rose laboriously from the bed, and began to put on his breeches before the leaded window of red and yellow diamonds.  "There is one more thing," he said quietly.  
  
"What is that, my lord?" said Chataya, an icy feeling growing in her stomach.  
  
"I have heard of a child," he said quietly, turning and fixing her with a green-eyed gaze.  
  
Chataya took a deep breath, doing her best to remain calm. "A girl, my lord."  
  
Tywin nodded, and began to put on his shirt. "Bring her to me."  
  
Chataya stood, and regarded him calmly.  _He cannot diminish you,_ she reminded herself.  _He only imagines he can_.  "I have been with others, my lord, as you are well aware of, and cannot say with confidence that..."  
  
"Did I ask for your opinion on this matter?" growled Tywin. "Bring her to me."  Chataya gave a bow, and then slid into her robe before heading out and down the stairs to Alayaya's room.  
  
The halls of her house of love were thankfully empty tonight, save for a couple of drunken merchants who seemed as interested in singing 'Alysanne' together as the women they were with, and her daughter's nurse was likewise asleep. But Alayaya was awake, and peered at her, brown eyes bright and alert.  Chataya placed a kiss on her little daughter's forehead, and then picked her up, and bore her to Lord Tywin.  
  
The Hand was standing by the hidden entrance he'd had built in secret when he'd been building this house for her, also in secret.  _A man whose mind is full of much twisting, the Lord Hand, especially as regards his women,_ she thought, watching him regard little Alayaya with suspicious eyes, poking and prodding her face as if trying to judge a horse.  _To his mind we must either be pure as clear water, in which case he will claim us, or filthy as midden, in which case he will keep us in secret_.  And she had little doubt where her daughter would stand in Tywin Lannister's green-gold eyes.  
  
"I do not see myself in her," he said at length in a voice that Chataya could not decide was quietly satisfied or quietly mournful.  He gave a firm nod.  "It is doubtless as you have said.  She is not mine."  
  
"As we both agree," said Chataya softly.  
  
"And she will never believe herself to be mine," noted Tywin.  
  
"Of course not, my lord," she replied.  "We agree on this as well."  
  
Tywin nodded again, his eyes intent on her.  "Place the child on the bed."  
  
Chataya considered refusing, but she had seen that look in his eye before, and knew what it meant.  And so she turned and placed Alayaya on the bed.  Once she had set her down, she turned to regard Tywin. The Lord Hand simply stood there, eyes glittering in the lamplight.  Taking a deep breath, she walked towards him.  _He cannot diminish you_ , she reminded herself.  _He only imagines he can_.  One of Tywin's hands darted out and tore the robe from her body, while the other went to loosen his breeches.  Chataya shut her eyes as he gripped her, and waited for the pain to start.


	38. Catelyn

**CATELYN**  
  
"And so were the seasons of my love," sang Barbara Bracken from the back of her pretty red gelding. "And soooo were the seasons of my looooove."  
  
Catelyn sighed. Barbara had joined the group heading to Harrenhal three days ago along with her sister, Jayne, and since then the entire party had been subjected to her singing, with only the occasional pause. It was not that Barbara had a bad voice, though it was rather deep for a woman--it was that her taste in songs tended towards the improper and ribald, things like 'The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown', 'The Lusty Lad', 'Her Little Flower', 'The Whirly Whorl', and 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair', a particular favorite which she had sang at least half-a-dozen times. 'Seasons of My Love' was fairly mild in comparison.  
  
 _Perhaps she has listened to me after all_ , thought Catelyn. When Catelyn had broached the subject, Barbara had given a booming laugh and declared "And you a woman wed! And with a child yet!" But today, her songs had been things like 'Durnwald', 'The Day They Hung Black Robin', and 'Sing Soft My Lute'--some daring, some sweet, but none too improper. And many of the others enjoyed her voice. Her little brother Edmure had particularly enjoyed 'The Day They Hung Black Robin', and sung along with 'Durnwald'. Indeed, even now he kept glancing back at Barbara as she sang, in a rather disturbingly admiring manner. Catelyn shook her head, and noticed her father was doing likewise. A woman like Barbara was bad enough for Edmure to get involved as she was, with seven years on him, and few unsightly rumors. But add that she was a Bracken... T _he Lord of Riverrun cannot make Raventree an enemy._ Catelyn glanced at the young Blackwoods, all making sure to keep a healthy distance from the Bracken sisters and their retinue. I _suppose I should consider it fortunate that Tytos Blackwood and Jonos Bracken aren't here as well._ Both Lords were heading armies in the war, far away from each other--Lord Blackwood involved in the efforts to retake Nightsong in the Stormlands, while Lord Bracken remained in Tumbleton, having taken over command of the Riverland armies there from Ser Stevron Frey, now even later than his father, having actually expired.  
  
But the little cluster of Brackens and Blackwoods were only some of the guests with them. They had Pipers from Pinkmaiden, Vances from Atranta, Vances from Wayfarer's Rest, Mallisters from Seagard, amongst other Riverlord families... and a few more unusual guests, most of whom had wound up riding together in a little cluster towards the back. She looked at the little cluster. "Oh, no," said young Tyrion Lannister, his squashed little brutish face looking grave. "No, despite what you hear, we don't have golden chamber-pots in the Rock," he said. "Much too pricey. And cold. But we do have gold goblets, and gold plates." The young Dwarf had come from Casterly Rock by route of the Golden Tooth, proceeded by ravens, accompanied by Lannister guardsmen and Vances. "I have come to see off my brother at Harrenhal," the misshapen young noble had declared boldly, without a hint of fear, and no one had thought to question him. _Poor little thing_ , Cat found herself thinking. _What it must cost him to come here and hold his head so high, looking like that, and with a brother like the Kingslayer..._  
  
"Father has a jade goblet!" said young Aeron Greyjoy excitedly. "From the far east! He got in the Basilisk Islands! He's been there many times!"  
  
Urrigon Greyjoy nodded along. "And the Summer Isles too!" He leaned in close to Tyrion's ear. "His man Dagmer says the girls there..." And then his voice became a fervent whisper, as he told the Imp of Casterly Rock whatever details on Summer Island women he had picked up second-hand.  
  
Catelyn shook her head. Those were some friendships she'd never thought possible. When the Greyjoys arrived along with the Mallisters, young Urri and Aeron had snorted to see Tyrion on a horse. The dwarf had frowned, and ridden his mount towards the pair so fast the inexpert young ironmen were toppled from the backs of their little ponies trying to wheel out of his way. And then Tyrion had had his servants help the pair back on their mounts, had given them a little instruction on riding, and within a day, turned the pair into his devoted partisans. The three had ridden together, told jokes together, and sung along badly to 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' together. In its own strange way, it made a great deal of sense--Tyrion and the Greyjoy boys were both outcasts and strangers here, amongst the riverlanders. They were probably the only company they were going to enjoy on this trip. _Like as not, they'll forget all this in a month or two_ , she thought. Still--not everyone seemed to think so little of it.  
  
The two boys' elder brother Victarion rode unsteadily on his horse, and spent his time glaring at the pair, as they chatted and laughed with young Tyrion. Catelyn frowned. With a home filled with men like that, she found she could not blame Lord Quellon, wishing his younger sons to get out and see how they lived in the other lands.  
  
"Why, Lady Stark," said Barbara Bracken, riding up beside her. "You, a married woman, looking so fixedly on young Victarion over there." She shook her head. "Shame, shame." And with that, Barbara gave another one of her deep laughs.  
  
"I was merely thinking of things," said Cat, glancing ahead on the road, and wishing that she was already at Harrenhal.  
  
"Mmmm, I can imagine," murmured Barbara, her brown eyes mischievous. "Mayhaps you could clarify a matter I've been thinking of, being married to a great Northern lord and all. I've heard from some that your Northerners' have members that are cold like icicles. And I've heard from others that they are wild, and howl like wolves when they take their pleasure in a woman." She gave a wicked smile. "Would you care to tell me which it is? I'm thinking of trying to snare meself a fine Northern husband, but I'd like to know what circumstances I'd be in, in the marital bed." Catelyn felt her mouth tighten and her cheeks burn, as Barbara watched. "Ahh. So it's the icicles then. You have my condolences." And then with another booming laugh, Barbara Bracken rode away.  
  
 _Do not rise to her,_ Catelyn reminded herself. _She is... ill-mannered, and no better than she should be_. Barbara's mother had died when she was young, and Lord Jonos had responded by leaving most of his daughters' education to their wet nurses, rather than bothering with a septa. In Barbara's case, it most certainly told. Glancing ahead, she saw a familiar set of misshapen towers come into view.  
  
"Behold, Harrenhal!" said Tyrion Lannister. "The largest castle raised by man!" He glanced at Aeron confidently. "Casterly Rock is bigger, of course, but it was not raised."  
  
Aeron stared at Harren the Black's castle with his eyes wide. "It's... it's..." He shook his head. "Why'd he build it so far inland? His longboats..."  
  
"Were based off the God's Eye," answered Tyrion, gesturing to the lake.  
  
Urrigon shook his head. "It's still... he could have built half a dozen castles with those stones, and put his men in them. Ruled over every river crossing and every stream." He gave an assured nod. "That's what I would have done."  
  
"Well, I guess Aegon the Conqueror was fortunate he had to face Harren Hoare, and not Urrigon Greyjoy," said Tyrion.  
  
"There was a Urrigon Greyjoy then!" said Aeron. He blinked. "Well--in Harren's father's time! He told Halleck that it was madness to try the Bloody Gate again, after being repulsed twice. So Halleck tied to the end of the battering ram when he tried again."  
  
Urrigon shook his head. "Bloody Hoares. Bastards deserved to burn."  
  
Aeron continued to stare at the huge ruin of a castle. "I wonder what he thought, when all he built turned to fire..."  
  
"I imagine it was something like, 'oh, I do hope that I just spilled some wine in my lap'," said Tyrion.  
  
The brothers Greyjoy considered that moment, and then burst out into loud laughter.


	39. Gerion

GERION  
  
Freckled Fanna and Lovely Lyta were dancing together as the fiddler and the lautist played, and the crowd in the Singing Sisters clapped their hands in time with the music. Gerion clapped louder and harder than any of them, even as he cleared his throat, and began to sing.  
  
"Oh, a Dragonlord there was, a mighty Dragonlord he,  
And he ruled by the sword, and he ruled by the flame,  
Till Valyria, it sank into the sea!"  
  
The crowd gave a howl as they clapped out the time. "Into the sea, into the sea!" they sang, "Valyria, it sank into the sea!" Gerion gave a nod and began the second verse.  
  
"This Dragonlord built him a mighty tower,  
A symbol of his might and of his power,  
For a Dragonlord he was, a mighty Dragonlord he,  
Who ruled by the sword, and who ruled by the flame,  
Till Valyria, it sank into the sea!"  
  
 _I should have been a tavern singer,_ he thought to himself, as he watched the crowd sing the chorus. I've _the gift for it, and it's something where no one cares if you're hungover in the morning, for they're all hungover themselves, so who are they to judge?_ He cleared his throat and began the next verse.  
  
"And there he placed a dame so fair,  
With gladsome eye and pale long hair,  
At the very top of his mighty tower,  
Which was symbol of his might and power,  
For a Dragonlord he was, a mighty Dragonlord he,  
Who ruled by the sword, and who ruled by the flame,  
Till Valyria, it sank into the sea!"  
  
 _How we love to hear of the mighty made low,_ thought Gerion, as the crowd gleefully sang, "Into the sea, into the sea, Valyria it sank into the sea!" Lyta and Fanna took his arms, and he began to swing them around as he sang.  
  
"And a babe he would place there,  
A bonny babe to be his heir,  
That he put in the dame so fair,  
With gladsome eye and pale long hair,  
At the very top of his mighty tower,  
Which was symbol of his might and power,  
For a Dragonlord he was, a mighty Dragonlord he,  
Who ruled by the sword, and who ruled by the flame,  
Till Valyria, it sank into the sea!"  
  
"Into the sea, into the sea," began the crowd, when the gold cloaks entered the tavern. As the song came to an abrupt end, with two more verses left to be sung, it occurred to Gerion that he knew the man leading them. "Ser Preston Greenfield," he said, cheerfully. "So good to see you here. Would you like a drink? They serve excellent drinks."  
  
"I'd rather not," muttered Ser Preston, who seemed almost embarassed to be named. "Master Gerion, we've been sent..."  
  
"Oh, I'm know that someone or other sent you," drawled Gerion, "to get me, and take me somewhere, so that I can likely get a stern talking to. But there's a path betwixt here and there, and on that path a drink may lie. Or perhaps two drinks. Or maybe even three, or--dare we be daring--I say we durst--four! Four drinks! Enough to make us all merry!" He glanced around at the room. "What say you all?" The crowd gave a great cheer.  
  
"Master Gerion..." began Ser Preston.  
  
"No, no, no," continued Gerion. "Here I am not 'Master Gerion'. Here I am Gerion Lannister, the Lord of Misrule! The Emperor of Wastrels and Good Cheer! The God-King of Bliss!" He turned and kissed Lyta, then turned back to Ser Preston. "Have I introduced you to my friends? I think not. The woman whose breast I'm fondling is the Lovely Lyta, while the woman whose hands are presently down my pants if I am not mistaken is the equally appropriately named Freckled Fanna." He leaned his head back and gave Fanna a kiss on the cheek.  
  
"Charmed, I'm sure," said Fanna, snaking a hand out to offer Ser Preston to kiss.  
  
The knight regarded said hand as if it were some sort of dangerous animal come from an exotic land. "Master Gerion, we really must..."  
  
"What, are you not charmed by Freckled Fanna?" snapped Gerion. "Have you any idea what a grave insult that is to a whore? Have you?" Ser Preston glanced around nervously, while one of the gold cloaks was surreptitiously helping himself to a drink. "It is a grave insult--a grave insult indeed, and the Lord Paramount of Merriment does not brook it! He does not brook it, ser! It requires punishment! Grave punishment!" Gerion stepped away from the women, clapping his hands together. "You must be flogged! Flogged with kisses! And then finished off by having your head dunked in ale!" He turned around to the crowd. "What say you all?" They gave a great, lusty hurrah.  
  
"Ser Kevan wishes to see you," said Ser Preston quietly. "Immediately."  
  
Gerion frowned. "Oh, very well. I issue a pardon." He spread his hands out magisterially. "You will NOT be flogged with kisses and dunked in ale." He turned toward the knight, and pointed at him dramatically. "But I warn you, I am put out, and when Gerion Lannister is put out--he is _quite_ put out." He straightened himself. "Let us go, ser. Let us go."  
  
As they moved towards the door, Ser Preston leaned towards Gerion's ear. "Would you like some... help...?"  
  
"I can walk unaided," snarled Gerion quietly.  
  
They walked the streets in silence then as they made their way to the Red Keep, and if seemed to Gerion that half of those they passed stared at him, while the other half made a concerted effort not to. _They should all be looking,_ he thought. _They should be calling from the corners and the alleyways 'Behold! It is the great disgrace of Casterly Rock!'_ A small boy was gawking at him. Gerion gave him a wink.  
  
The Red Keep was silent when they reached it, and here almost all did their best to avoid looking at him. _Come now, come, people. Take a look! Take a long one! I am the proof that Lannisters are mortals, the same as you! We bleed, and drink, and cry, and piss, and vomit, and shit ourselves, like anyone else! Treasure this moment! Treasure it!_ Ser Preston opened the door to Kevan's offices in silence. Gerion took a deep breath and entered.  
  
The room was all but empty when he came in, so Gerion sat down on a broad-backed chair that lay before a desk with a single candle burning low on it, and adjusted his shirt. Somehow, that brought Nell to his mind, doing that when he was a boy. "You look so like your mother," his father had said one day, with a sad smile, and Gerion had been confused, because he had a vague little boy's understanding that Nell was his mother, and they looked nothing alike. Gerion shut his eyes. _'Be brave, my sweetling,'_ came her voice to his ears. _'Be strong and brave.'_ When he opened them, Kevan had entered the room.  
  
"Geri," said Kevan with a slow, terrible shake of his head. "Must you do this?"  
  
Gerion took a deep breath. While Tywin terrified him, in some ways, he did not unnerve him the way Kevan did at times, because while Tywin could cause many unpleasant things to happen to his brother, he could not hurt him in any way that mattered the way Kevan could. Such as the way he was doing right now, by staring at him with his deep, strong green eyes. "Well, it passes the time," said Gerion with a smile.  
  
Kevan gave a snort, as he seated himself opposite his brother. "I hope you realize, as you are out there making an ass of yourself, how tense things are for us right now."  
  
"For you, and for Tywin," corrected Gerion. "I'm the well-liked Lannister."  
  
"They like your coin, Geri," said Kevan. "Which we supply."  
  
"I still have some of my inheritance left," muttered Gerion weakly.  
  
"A tense time," continued Kevan, ignoring him. "The war in the west proves... troublesome. The matter of Jaime... And then there is the strain between Lord Tywin and the King..."  
  
"'Oh, who are you,' the proud lord said, 'that I must bow so low?'" sang out Gerion lowly.  
  
"The King is no Reyne, Gerion," said Kevan quietly.  
  
"I think you miss my meaning, brother," said Gerion with a smile. "But still--your warning is taken. I will keep my debauches to a minimum and try to maintain a certain measure of decorum during them. Perhaps I shall insist all my companions dress in Myrish lace..."  
  
"Geri..." began his brother.  
  
Gerion turned to stare at the candle, the flame beguiling him as it danced. He passed his hand over it quickly. "Of course, that would be rather expensive, but I'm certain the results would be worth it..." He held his hand over the flame.  
  
"Geri..." muttered Kevan in growing alarm.  
  
"It's not hard to do, Kevan," continued Gerion calmly, as the pain began to shoot up his arm. "All one has to do is not mind..."  
  
Kevan rubbed his temples. "Geri, I have not called you here because of your drinking, even if I am gravely disappointed that I have to send the gold cloaks to the winesinks to find you. I have called you here because we have need of you."  
  
Gerion blinked, and jerked his smarting hand back from the candle's flame, an image of cervasse pieces clattering to the floor leaping unbidden to his mind. "You have... What do you... Why... What would you have me do?"  
  
"Lord Stark and his men are on their way to Harrenhal, with Jaime," said Kevan. "It would be easy for a small party--a man and a couple guards, for example--to catch up with them, so that they may attend Lady Shella's festivities."  
  
Gerion raised an eyebrow. "And you want me at Harrenhal to do... what?" he asked, even as he began to suspect just what his brothers wanted of him.  
  
Suspicions that Kevan's answer confirmed.


	40. Jaime

**JAIME**  
  
The food served at the sturdy towerhouse called Sow's Horn was poor--tough, grisly meat, weak beer, and coarse, crumbling bread. Ser Roger Hogg swore that his stores were simply depleted by the war, but Jaime had his doubts. The Hoggs were sworn to Hayford Hall, and Lord Hayford had been loyal to the Dragon until the twin blows of the Trident and the Sack had destroyed House Targaryen's hold in the Crownlands. It wouldn't surprise Jaime to discover that Ser Roger and his two doughty sons were keeping a Dragon banner in their back chambers just in case. Jaime suspected that sheltering a Stag host would have been bad enough--sheltering the Kingslayer meant food little better than what the dogs were getting.  
  
Jaime glanced at the dogs, cheerfully chomping at their bones. _Perhaps I am overstating the quality. The dogs seem to be enjoying their meals._ That certainly couldn't be said of most of their human counterparts--save perhaps Lord Bolton, and in his case he didn't seem to enjoy his meal so much as eat with the same dull satisfaction he'd eaten the finer meals they'd been served in Rosby and Stokesworth. Bolton seemed to turn to look at him, as if he could feel Jaime's eyes on him, somehow, his pale eyes regarding the young knight with a sort of strange interest. Jaime shuddered slightly. There was something... unnerving about the man. Other men in this host laughed and jested, or cried and mourned, or did first the one, then the other. Roose Bolton seemed as unaffected by the thought of returning home after a war as most men would from a rather uninspiring visit to the market. It was not something that made the thought of traveling up North with him... comforting.  
  
 _Just for a ways,_ he reminded himself. _Then he goes to the Dreadfort, and I go... to the Wall_. For a moment, the thought of heading to Braavos, or Pentos, or Myr with Cersei came to him, but he gave a sigh, and it vanished. _A pretty, mad dream._ He prayed that Cersei had truly realized that. _I wish... if only she had let me see her again in... better circumstances..._ But she had not, and somehow, he knew they would never meet again, in this world. And that hurt with a dull throb that he thought might never stop.  
  
As for the rest of his family--there had been awkward and heartfelt goodbyes from Kevan and Geri, but from his father... Tywin had merely stared stonily at him the entire time, as if looking at a stranger. _Another Lannister who's realized that we have never truly known each other._  
  
And what had he done it for? Regard? Donal Noye, the one-armed smith, sitting on the other end of the table--this man had regard. He was joining the Night Watch, and men honored him for it. But not Jaime. No, he felt they held him lower than the prisoners eating in the keep's pigsty, the men his father had captured on King's Landing's walls. And could he blame them? _They think me an oathbreaker. And they're right. Oh, they are right..._ His mind flashed to those little corpses, brought into his father's sight. _He had them draped in Lannister colors... Our colors... Red and gold... They were..._  
  
Jaime took a deep breath. He glanced at Lord Stark, who sat at the table with several of his bannermen--fat, jolly Lord Manderly, and big, jolly Lord Umber, and big, burly Lord Mormont, and stolid, pleasant Lord Cerwyn--looking pensive and quiet. _I saw your father die,_ he felt the urge to say. _I saw him roast, as your brother he... his face went..._  
  
He stood up, suddenly, nearly upsetting his drink. "I... My pardons..." He glanced around the table desperately, all eyes on him. "I... I need some air..."  
  
"It is a tad smoky in here," said Lord Manderly, with a touch of formal sympathy.  
  
"If... if I could go outside for a moment...," began Jaime, nervously. He saw the looks come to the faces, the suspicious looks, weighing him and finding him wanting--and then there was a cough.  
  
"I will go out with Ser Jaime," said little Howland Reed, standing gracefully from his seat. He gave a merry smile. "We crannogmen--we do not care for crowded halls." With a nod, Lord Stark let the pair head off together, though Jaime was certain his eyes followed them out.  
  
After a moment, Howland began to quietly whistle, sounding eerily like a bird. He turned and glanced at Jaime, his green eyes almost seeming to glitter in the shadows. "I hope his silence does not offend you," said the crannogman, quietly. "Ned--Lord Stark--has many ghosts..."  
  
The image of Rickard Stark burning flashed unbidden to Jaime's thoughts. "So do I," he muttered. "Some I fear we share..."  
  
Howland gave a nod. "These are not only the ghosts of the dead," said Howland. "They are ghosts of the future, as well. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. Eddard Stark, husband. Eddard Stark, father." He shook his head. "They visit him, my Ned, and he does not know what to think of the images he sees." They reached the outside. Howland took a deep breath. "Ahhh. Much better."  
  
"You... don't mind my company," stated Jaime, positively. "Why?"  
  
"You have not called me 'frogeater'," said Reed. "It is most pleasant, from a Southerner."  
  
"But... I have killed a king I was sworn to protect..." began Jaime.  
  
"And what a king," Howland said with a snort. "Would one of you white cloaks done it sooner. It would have been best for all the Seven Kingdoms."  
  
"I... we swore a vow!" declared Jaime. His voice sounded high and desperate to him. "To protect him, not to judge him."  
  
"And I have sworn a vow to serve House Stark," said Howland Reed. "As did my father, and his father before him. And yet if I came to my home, and found a Stark raping my wife, that Stark would die." He shrugged. "But then, I am only a crannogman. We are a small folk, and we often find the ways of you large folk puzzling."  
  
Jaime chuckled, despite himself. "Something tells me you are... less puzzled."  
  
"I have learned many things," said the crannogman. He sighed, and shook his head. "It is a strange thing, this war that ranges about the land. As we head to the great castle, I am reminded of a tale..." He smiled wistfully. "A sad, little story, of my people. There was a little man once, who left his home, to see many things, and learn many things. And because he did this, many people died." The smile became a frown. "Not because of his choosing, no, but simply because of the time..."  
  
Jaime blinked. "Lord... Lord Reed..."  
  
Howland gave a sharp laugh. "It is nothing." He turned to regard Jaime. "No man may truly know his fate, Ser Jaime, until it is upon him." The green eyes seemed to peer into his very soul. "May you find what you seek at the Wall. And may what seeks you find you there."


	41. The Knight of Hounds

**THE KNIGHT OF HOUNDS**  
  
"It makes no sense, Tyg," muttered Tytos Clegane as they made their way to the yard, Tygett's squire following them.  "Lord Tarly is not a man who wastes time with foolish moves, and concentrating on Silverhill would be a foolish move.  What does it bring him but itself? The path to Deep Den is all rugged hills and heavy woods--and well-guarded by Lydden's men.  And if you get past them--it is Hornvale and the Braxes.  A nearly worthless endeavor!"  
  
Tygett Lannister gave a shrug.  "It would let them cut off the Gold Road, Tytos.  There is that."  
  
"Yes, just long enough to be crushed between Lannister and Royal forces like a grape between a man's fingers," Tytos said with a shake of his head.  He sighed.  "And Tarly knows this.  No, no, there is some greater design here."  He frowned.  "How are the defenses of Crakehall?"  
  
"Ready as always, Tytos," said Tygett with a shake of his head.  "Lord Sumner is seeing to it himself."  
  
"It would comfort me more if he were not," muttered Tytos.  "He's a brave man, I grant you, but he's never a sensible one, something that's gotten worse as he gets older. And sense--sense is what you need to fight Randyll Tarly as much as courage."  He coughed and glanced at Tygett's squire.  "No offense to your family meant, of course..."  
  
Lyle Crakehall shrugged.  "You're not saying anything about grandfather I've not heard from father half a hundred times..." said the burly young man with a smile. "Gods, last year he got himself laid up in bed for a month by trying to jump a tall fence on horseback.  Just to show he could still do it."  He gave a booming laugh.  "He's still a fighter, my grandfather, for all his grey hairs."  
  
Tygett coughed, and idly stroked his rough blonde beard.  "You keep talking  of 'sense', Tytos.  Well, where's the sense of attacking Crakehall?  It's King's Landing the Dragons want, not the Rock!"  
  
"It would draw Westerland strength away from the Crownlands," said Tytos quietly.  "And that's for a start. Wars like this... they make things brittle...  To show up the power of one of the strongest members of the Stags' coalition..." He shook his head.  "No, it would not be a small thing, to attack the Westerlands.  If done well... it could shift the entire balance of the war."  
  
"Then why all this noise and thunder around Silverhill?" asked Lyle Crakehall.  "Seems a waste to me to spend so much when you aim is for somewhere else."  
  
"A distraction, mayhaps," answered Tytos, as they reached the yard. "I do not claim to know the mind of Randyll Tarly.  The man's strategies are a mass of ropes, all tied together so that if one part fails, the rest may go on as the failure is... corrected.  But what I know is this--Silverhill is what he seems to want, not what he truly wants..."  
  
In the yard, Bald Pate stood directing the recruits in their training, with White Pate's help. Tytos smiled to watch them at work.  A lucky find those two--fellow veterans of the Ninepenny Kings, the same as he and Tygett.  Bald Pate had gone on to become a sellsword afterwards, while White Pate had gone back to his farm, where he'd had a son, Black Pate, who had had another son, Little Black Pate, all of whom were here.  On the whole, not a bad lot, thought Tytos, watching Wat the Whistler trade blows with Patched Garret, and Long-haired Pate disarm Big Will. In truth, I'd rather go into battle with these men behind me then most of the men I was riding with at the war's start. He glanced over to the archery practice, where Skinny Pate was once again demonstrating that skinny or not, he could use a bow, while Red Pate, Much Muchson, and Brysel paused from their own practice simply to watch.  
  
"Hold your sword firm," noted Bald Pate, demonstrating with his short blade what he meant, "and don't try anything fancy.  Just go for the gut and stab."  
  
White Pate nodded.  "Unless he's got plate on.  Then you'll want a spear."  
  
"Or to run," muttered Bald Plate.  "Men in plate are too dangerous for the likes of us."  He regarded the recruits levelly. "Remember that.  You're not bloody heroes, who can take three men on at a time, and win.  You fight smart, and you fight well--not courageously, but just well--and you might come out of this alive.  You trying and be bleeding Symeon Star-Eyes, and they'll be burying you in a field somewhere.  If you're lucky."  
  
"Back in the Stepstones," noted White Pate, "me brother Jon managed to get heself set on fire, he did.  And jumped in the water to put off.  There were rocks in the water.  And rip tides too, aye there were."  He shook his head. "Ne'er got the body back.  Not that we 'anted it, no, sir."  Black Pate and Little Black Pate shared a chuckle at that, that was soon joined by a booming laugh from Lyle Crakehall.  
  
"Well told, man, well told," said the bluff young squire cheerily.  He glanced over the men eagerly.  "Now, come on!  Come on!  Who's ready to give me a try, mmm?"  He drew his sword, his face eager. "I'm ready for a fight!"  
  
White Pate gave a slight shrug.  "If his lordship is willing, I'd be more than able to try he."  He calmly drew his own notched, worn blade.  "When you are ready, come at me, me lord."  
  
Bald Pate signaled for the others to stop, as Lyle Crakehall and White Pate readied for their fight.  Lyle took a couple breaths, then rushed the crofter.  The fight was over in under a minute.  For a few seconds, Lyle seemed to beat the man back, a flury of steel--and then suddenly he was lying on the ground, as White Pate placed a foot on his chest and leveled that worn sword at the man's throat.  
  
"Do you yield, me lord?" said White Pate, his voice a quiet murmur.  
  
Lyle Crakehall glanced at his sword, lying out of his hands and well out of reach, and then at White Pate. "You used your feet," he noted simply.  
  
White Pate gave a nod. "That I did, me lord.  That I did."  
  
Lyle's big face broke out into a grin, and he burst out laughing.  "Damn me, sir, damn me, if I don't like you for all you've landed me in the dirt.  I yield!"  As White Pate stepped off him, and helped him up, he gave another loud chuckle.  "Damn it, what have you been doing since the Stepstones?"  
  
White Pate shrugged.  "Minding me farm and me family, mostly.  We grow turnips, and we grow beets, and we grow pease, and we keep goats and pigs.  'Tis good land."  
  
Lyle gave the man a hearty pat on the back that the old crofter didn't even seem to notice.  "To grow such fine men as you and yours, it must be."  
  
A drunken snort broke the general good cheer.  "Oh, fine men are they?" muttered Ser Alyn Stackspear. "Well, really I shouldn't be surprised. You Crakehalls are such bumpkins that of course being planted in the dirt by a farmer comes naturally..."  
  
Lyle's cheerful grin suddenly became a snarl, as his hand clenched into a fist.  "You watch your mouth, ser."  
  
White Pate placed a hand on the squire's shoulder.  "Be not upset, me lord, be not upset.  Tis only a gushing of vile wind, 'twill pass."  He glanced at Ser Alyn levelly.  "Perhaps ser would be carrying to give this farmer a try, hmmm?  And show the young lord where he has gone wrong, hmmm?"  
  
Ser Alyn tottered, and glanced away.  "I'll not waste my time fighting the likes of you..."  
  
"I thought not, ser," replied White Pate.  "Still, the offer, it was made."  
  
"You...! You...!" muttered Ser Alyn, waving his hand angrily.  
  
"Watch your tone, man!" snapped Lyle.  
  
"That's enough," said Tygett stepping into the middle of the field.  "Everyone--we are here to kill the Reachers. Not each other.  Remember that."  Ser Alyn slunk back into a corner and sat down, grumbling, while most of the others glared at him. Tygett gave a glance around the yard. "Perhaps we should show you all a more... even match, hmm?" he said with a cheerful grin.  He turned to Tytos.  "What do you say, Ser Tytos?  For old time's sake, eh?"  
  
Tytos felt a grin come to his face, despite himself. "Very well, Ser Tygett.  Very well."  With a smooth motion, he readied his sword and shield, even as Tyg drew his own greatsword.  
  
Bald Pate gave a chuckle and glanced at the recruits.  "Well, it looks like you lot are going to see how it's done proper..."  He stepped further back.  "Give them room."  
  
Tytos and Tygett circled each other warily, Tygett smiling his leonine grin the entire time.  After a moment, Tytos clapped his sword against his shield three times.  "At me, Ser.  At me," he whispered.  With a joyful shout, Tygett darted at Tytos, his blade moving like lightning.  Tytos dodged the first few blows, then began to counter with his shield, forcing Tygett to fight to keep his grip on the blade.  _Still the eager boy at heart, aren't you, Tyg?_ he thought to himself.  _Always going for the quick kill.  Hoping I've slowed down just a bit, don't you?  I haven't._ The opening he was looking for appeared.  He struck with his shield to open it wider, and then placed his blade at Tygett's neck.  
  
"And now, you are dead," he stated.  He lowered his blade.  "Or would be, if we were fighting in earnest, Ser Tygett."  
  
Tygett shook his head, grinning, then glanced at the recruits.  "I want you all to know, you look at one of the finest blades in the Seven Kingdoms, the man who taught me everything I know about swordplay.  As I squired for him."  He smiled at Tytos.  "And I swear, you have a few tricks you kept to yourself..."  
  
Tytos gave a shrug.  "Mostly, Ser Tygett, it is being very large and very fast."  
  
The younger recruits stood staring at him, as if watching a miracle being unveiled in their midst.  It was Skinny Pate who broke the silence.  "Ser... how is it people don't talk about you?"  The young man coughed awkwardly.  "That... it was not meant as an insult, Ser, I'm just... I wondered..."  
  
Tytos raised his hand gently.  "And it was not taken as such.  But to answer you..."  He shrugged.  "Oh, I suppose it is fortune, as much as anything. Knights rise by great deeds, in battle and tourney."  He shrugged.  "I have done some worthy things in these, but nothing particularly worthy of note."  He looked and saw Tygett raising an eyebrow.  Tytos gave him a quick frown.  _Do not say it, Tyg, do not say it.  I'll not have the lads brought into that old quarrel, especially not now..._  
  
"As always, Ser Tytos, you are too modest," stated Tygett.  "He's won some notable tourneys--he took the Towers at Lannisport, when I was boy, and rang all seven bells at Kayce."  Tytos shifted awkwardly.  "Amongst other victories.  And then there were those great contests with Ser Barristan Selmy..."  
  
Lyle Crakehall stared at Tytos in quiet awe.  "You went against Ser Barristan the Bold?"  He leaned forward. "Who won?"  
  
"Ser Barristan, of course," answered Tytos simply.  "He is called 'Ser Barristan the Bold', and stands in the Kingsguard for good reason."  He heard a snort that he was fairly certain was from Ser Alyn, and ignored it.  "Still--I hold it an honor to have fought with him, and not shamed myself."  
  
"That is putting it mildly, Ser Tytos," said Tygett.  He looked at the crowd.  "At the Tourney of the Silver Bridge, he attempted Ser Barristan seven times, when most fell after one.  After the seventh attempt, victory was granted to Ser Barristan."  The smile on his face grew.  "And then there was the melee at Maidenpool.."  He looked at Tytos.  "Shall I tell the tale, or shall you?"  
  
Tytos sighed.  "As you are trying to make it sound remarkable, you should.  I fear I lack your perspective."  
  
Tygett chuckled, and returned to his tale.  "The melee had gone for hours, and it was down to the two of them.  Ser Tytos was on foot by this time, and Ser Barristan on horseback, but seeing this, Ser Barristan dismounted, to face his foe on equal footing.  Ser Tytos waited for him to do so, and then they began."  He shook his head. "Their blades moved like serpents--like strokes of lightning.  You could not follow the motions.  And yet somehow, they could.  Dodging and weaving, they fought there, and then it happened."  Tygett clapped his hands together.  "Ser Barristan's blade snapped."  Tytos winced at the mass exhalation of breath.  "All waited for what they imagined would happen, for Ser Tytos to take the victory," said Tygett gleefully.  "And Ser Tytos... dropped his blade, and his shield.  And so they finished the melee hand-to-hand."  
  
Tytos looked awkwardly at the others.  "He had dismounted for me."  He glanced away.  "And it was a tourney.  There is... a code to such things."  
  
Tygett merely smiled.  "They fought there, grappling with each other, first one hitting the ground, then the other.  Finally, Ser Barristan managed to pin Ser Tytos with... some Marcher move, and Ser Tytos yielded, saying..."  He waved his hand.  "Oh, what was it you said, Tytos?  That part you remember far better than I."  
  
Ser Tytos shut his eyes.  "I said that I yielded, and that truly, he was well-named for I knew no bolder knight."  He sighed.  "And then he said he knew of one as bold, and was most joyed that he and I would never meet on the field of battle."  Opening his eyes, he gave a cough.  "An irony that I am well aware of in the present circumstances."  
  
"Don't drop your sword next time," muttered Ser Alyn.  
  
"As I said, it was a tourney," replied Tytos. "A true battle is another affair."  
  
Ser Alyn seemed to be considering a reply when Leyan Serrett and Garrett Flowers rushed onto the field.  "Ser Tytos!  Ser Tygett!" cried Leyan.  "Ser Tytos!  There's a raven!  From Crakehall!  Maester Olwan says it's urgent!  The Reach are attacking in force!"  
  
Ser Tygett winced.  "Damn you, Tytos.  Why can't you be wrong on these things?"  
  
"Be a bad man for these matters if I often was, wouldn't I?" muttered Tytos.  He was considering what was needed for this, when the horses rushed onto the field.  The day's scouting expedition was back, and by the looks of them, it was not good news.  
  
"Sers!" panted Ser Creighton as he caught his breath.  "It... Beesbury's men!  They're moving!  They're heading here!"  
  
Tytos frowned, and turned to Tygett and Lyle.  "Well there's your answer.  What is Tarly doing here?  Setting himself up to secure the Gold Road as he threatens the Rock."  He chuckled lightly to himself.  "Clever, clever man."  
  
Tygett nodded.  "Well, this limits our options.  Our choices are face Beesbury in the field, or hole up here."  He regarded Tytos levelly.  "I think you know which I choose."  
  
"The same as I would," answered Tytos with a smile.  He turned to his men.  "Ready your horses.  We move before nightfall.  The time for practice is over.  Now is the time for battle."


	42. The Journeyman of High Standing

**THE JOURNEYMAN OF HIGH STANDING**  
  
"Feel this," said Tommen Brightflowers, holding the shimmering length of cloth up before Janos' eyes. Janos nodded, and placed it between his finger and thumb as Brightflowers had shown him.  A frown came to his face.  
  
"It's rough" he said.  "Silk should be smooth."  
  
Tommen nodded, and turned to the seller.  "False goods.  This is not silk.  It is linen, made to appear as silk."  
  
"What?" said the Myrman, nervously.  "No, no, sirs.  This is..."  
  
"Not silk," stated Brightflowers.  "Do not lie to a Mercer, sir.  If the Guild deems you unreliable, then you do not sell here.  And then you starve.  And you are very close to being found as such, sir.  This is a grave matter, to try and pass false goods off to a Master Mercer and a Journeyman of high standing."  
  
The Myrman shifted uncomfortably. "I..." He peered at the cloth as if seeing it for the first time.  "Oh, you are right, sirs--you are most certainly right.  My apologies!  A thousand apologies upon apologies for my unworthy error!"  
  
Janos glanced at the huge roll of the material that lay behind the stall.  "Bit of a large error," he said.  
  
Brightflowers nodded.  "A very large one," he said.  "Do you know what the Guilds of King's Landing can do to one who sells false goods?  We say the word, your goods are seized, and you are ruined in this city, unable to buy or sell here."  The mercer fixed his gaze on the Myrman whose discomfort seemed only to grow.  "Tell us why we should not say it?"  
  
"Please, sirs," said the Myrman nervously.  "This has... not been a profitable trip.  The ship my partners and I traveled on was seized... we have stayed here for far longer than we have planned... our quality goods sold off..."  
  
"And doubtless, you all have sick, motherless babes at home," said Tommen, a sneer on his lips.  "If this is the best you can offer..."  He glanced at Janos, who was once again rubbing the material between his fingers.  "What does the Journeyman say?"  
  
Janos gave a nod. "I say give him another chance--if he gives us this linen that was trying to pass for silk."  He glanced at the roll.  "All of it."  
  
Tommen blinked at this.  "That is..."  He bit his lip.  "It cannot be sold as silk..."  
  
"And it wouldn't be," said Janos.  He coughed.  "I... Master Brightflowers, I will take the risk and sell it, in accordance with the laws of the Guild."  
  
Tommen regarded him for a moment with a gaze so critical, Janos felt an urge to look at his feet, the way he had when his father had inquired about his plans for a night on the town when he was a young man.  "Very well," said the master merchant.  "This is considered acceptable." He glanced at the Myrman.  "You and your partners owe this man much. He has chosen to spare you the full consequences of your actions in return for something that entails a great risk on his part."  
  
The Myrman nodded.  "Oh, I know, sir, I know."  He gave an awkward bow.  "Let him know the partnership of Gelias and Flasyan will always look on..."  He glanced at Janos inquisitively.  
  
"Janos Slynt," muttered the journeyman.  
  
The Myrman gave a slightly puzzled nod.  "Ahh.  Any relation to the Slynts of Volantis...?"  
  
"Not by blood," said Janos, glancing away.  
  
Tommen peered at the man, his thin face and broad ears bringing to mind some predatory sort of wild dog.  "We will send porters for it, shortly."  He raised one eyebrow.  "If it is not prepared, we will have words.  And if you are not here, we will find you."  And with that, the Mercer pressed his thin lips into a smile that had the Myrman backing up swiftly to speak with his fellows.  "Well, it is your choice," said Brightflowers.  "But why did you ask for this cloth of his?"  
  
Janos shrugged as the pair began to stroll down the dock.  "It's fine linen.  Finest I've ever seen.  If you sold it as such it'd be worth a pretty penny."  He sighed. "Really... what it cost them to have that made, I wonder why they even bothered with trying to cheat us..."  
  
"Silk sells for more than linen," answered Tommen. "There's your answer."  
  
"But even I could see that wasn't silk," noted Janos.  "It was folly, pure and simple.  They'd have been wiser just to sell it as what it was."  He turned to glance at Brightflowers.  "That is what I shall do, and I shall turn a pretty profit from it, just you watch."  
  
The older man chuckled to himself, as they turned on to the Muddy Way.  "We'll make a True and Honorable Master of you yet, Journeyman Slynt," stated Brightflowers, with a satisfied air.  
  
Janos gave a slight odd.  "A great and unimaginable honor to this humble journeyman," he recited.  Guild tradition mandated that this was the proper response to any such declaration of a journeyman becoming a master--or with slight modifications, to an apprentice becoming a journeyman--and Janos was in no hurry to offend his betters.  _To think, me one of the True and Honorable Masters.  I shall wear a chain of gold, and a fine red hat, and all who pass me by will think me very grand.  As well they should._   Janos knew the Guilds of Oldtown, Lannisport, and Gulltown looked down on the Guilds of King's Landing, as riff-raff, but his father had always stressed to him that this was nothing but envy and spite on their part.  "Never forget, my son," said Olyvar, when Janos was a boy who Olyvar had fancied might become a Master Butcher one day, "you live in the finest city in all the world, for in this place, a man may rise."  
  
Janos rubbed his eyes.  _Seven help me, I'm about to start bawling like a babe,_ he thought.  He didn't think Tommen would appreciate it.  For all his good manners, Master Brightflowers was a hard, canny man who never walked away from a deal without getting the best of those who he dealt with.  Somehow, showing hm weakness seemed an ill idea.   Janos glanced at the thin merchant, immaculately dressed as always, his hard little eyes regarding the city, and then glanced away.  He recalled the story that said Tommen had once beat a man to death who'd called him a bastard to his face, a story he and Allar had loved to repeat to their friends. Somehow the story didn't seem as thrilling when you were at the man's side as he showed you the ropes of your profession.  
  
His eyes caught one of the men he'd liked to tell the story to, Stefan Spaer, bustling about in his gold cloak.  He passed by a fruit-seller's stand and casually picked up an apple, regarded it for a moment, then bit into it.  Spaer walked off, chewing the apple, without the least effort to pay for it, as the shop's owner watched with a blank expression.  Janos frowned to himself.  He, Stefan, and Allar had lifted apples as boys, but that had been a different thing, almost a sport, where one strived hard as one could to avoid being caught.  This... Janos shook his head. It changed men, the cloak, and generally not for the better. He recalled something his father had liked to say... "Cloaks of gold hide souls of lead".  _And that could have been me.  Seven be praised for bringing the Magister to my door, for all his... oddities_.  
  
The worst of it was that the price for apples and fruit had been climbing steadily with the Rose Road closed.  _Grain as well, though not so dear,_ he thought as he walked to the stall.  "An apple... no, two apples," he said, pressing a handful of coppers into the man's hand, as he picked up a pair of promising fruit.  
  
The man stared at him with surprise, and muttered some rough thanks as he counted the coppers.  Tommen shook his head as Janos approached, and offered him an apple.  "Be careful who you offend, Journeyman," said Brightflowers as he took it.  
  
"I just bought some fruit," said Janos quietly, as he took a bite out of his own apple.  
  
Brightflowers snickered.  "By the hells you did," he muttered, smiling darkly.  "Remember, young man, the Goldcloaks have made and unmade kings, on occasion.  A merchant is no great matter for them."  
  
"I simply bought some fruit," insisted Janos fervently.  
  
Tommen shook his head. "We are here," he said, as he stopped before Mollaro Deem's great coopery, where a mass of men sat sipping ale in mugs as Mollaro's wife and older daughters poured it for them. "Now... porters..."  He clapped his hands together.  "Oy!  Men!  I've a job for you."  
  
"So does Master Deem," said one of the men.  
  
"Master Deem's job is for later," declared Brightflowers.  "Mine is for now."  
  
"We've agreed to wait here for Master Deem's job," said the man, sipping his ale.  
  
"You've agreed to sit here, and drink," snapped Tommen.  
  
"Brightflowers!" came Mollaro's voice, as he turned from the barrel he was assembling in the coopery's yard.  "Are you fucking with my men, you miserable dried-up shit?"  The cooper strolled up to the mercers, wearing a pair of thick trousers and heavy apron.  The heat of the day had Mollaro going shirtless, something that emphasized the man's burly frame.  
  
"They're not your men," replied Tommen.  "They are porters, and they work for who pays them."  
  
"I pay them, so they're fucking mine," said Mollaro, dark blue eyes narrowing.  "So get the fuck away, you miserable old skinflint."  
  
"You've half the porters in King's Landing here, you reprehensible old drunk" snapped Brightflowers. "Surely you can spare four."  
  
"I've a big order," snarled Mollaro.  "I'm making barrels for the fucking king, thank you, sir.  So fuck you, and fuck whatever you need four porters for."  He slapped his hands together.  "These men need to be ready to move as soon as me and mine have finished them.  And that will be fucking soon, because we can build barrels here!"  He glanced back at his journeymen and apprentices.  "Can't we, boys?"  The coopers gave a hoot and stomped their feet.  Mollaro nodded, smiling to himself.  "That means 'fuck yes, we fucking can'," he explained.  
  
"I gathered," said Tommen. "Four men.  To take a roll of cloth back to Journeyman Slynt's shop."  
  
"Oh, so it's for young Slynt," said Mollaro, with a nod.  "Why didn't you say so?  That I can fucking accept."  He crossed his arms. "With conditions."  
  
"If those conditions are anything besides Slynt and I can hire four porters for a simple job, we will walk away," stated Tommen.   
  
"Like hell you will," muttered the cooper, turning away.  Janos saw Mollaro's back and did his best not to stare.  The brands Mollaro wore on his face may have been the most apparent reminder of his past, but the scars on his back were the most horrifying.  It looked as if his back had been torn apart, and then knitted itself back together... _wrong_.  Janos could only imagine how painful it must be to bear such scars.  Not that Mollaro Deem ever showed it.  
  
"You more or less told us to," replied Tommen.  "And I'll not have young Janos entering one of your dreadful bargains..."  
  
Mollaro snorted.  "Ha.  To be expected from fucking Master Skinflint!  All know that under your skin there is no blood, only dust and ink."  
  
"And you've got liquor flowing through your veins," snapped Tommen.  "A wise man's well-served to be kept away from your brand of madness."  
  
"Let the young man fucking hear for himself," said Mollaro.  He looked at Janos. "Come!  You know I always respected your father, and your grandfather before him!  I would never do their kin wrong."  He shifted slightly.  "In a matter like this."  
  
Janos sighed.  "What do you want?"  
  
"There are some young men," said Mollaro. "Recent arrivals. They need a place to stay.  I figure, you've got the fucking Magister, so..."  
  
"How many young men?" asked Janos.  
  
"Three or four," said Mollaro.  
  
Janos gave a nod.  "Fine.  Send them to me."  He offered Mollaro his hand, and the pair shook on the deal.  
  
"Now, the porters?" asked Mollaro.  
  
The cooper turned and glanced at the porters.  "Hoss, Orys, Wat, Slug," he announced, "it's time for you to get up off your lazy asses and do some work."  Four porters stood up, grumbling, and looked to Brightflowers for direction, when Allar rushed down the street.  
  
"Oy!  Da'!  Kyr!  Nyred!" he shouted.  "At the docks... You have to see this!"  He glanced at Janos.  "Oh.  Hello, Janos."  He smiled broadly.  "You have to see this!"  
  
Mollaro rolled his eyes.  "Glad to see my fucking pride and joy is hard at work being a productive member of the family business."  
  
Allar turned.  "I was keeping an eye out for things, just like you said.  But this... it's..."  Allar shrugged and turned away, running back towards the docks.  
  
Mollaro's younger sons looked at him, pleadingly.  "Ahh, fuck.  There's no way we'll finish the barrels till we see whatever it was that rendered Allar even more fuckwitted than usual."   
  
"We'll be heading the same way," noted Tommen.   
  
Mollaro grumbled as he strolled down the Muddy Way, younger sons in tow.  "Most likely two dogs fucking..."  
  
Crowds had gathered at the docks to watch what was happening when the group arrived, and it was far more impressive than Mollaro Deem had imagined.  In Blackwater Bay, a large fleet of purple-hulled vessels were doing battle with a scattered collection of ships.  Arrows flew through the air between the two forces, as did the occasional pot of pitch.  As one ship tried to break away from the galleys that were surrounding it by traveling close to the shore, it foundered on a rock that the waters had concealed.  As men began to leap from the ship, Janos saw its standard was a seahorse, and that the purple ships it tried to escape from bore a crowned stag for theirs.  
  
A cheer rose from the crowd as one vessel from the Velayron fleet burst into flames, while another one struck its standard.  "Do you know what this means?" asked Mollaro.  
  
"It means the ships from the Free Cities will be coming on a more regular basis again," said Brightflowers.  
  
"Might, might," muttered Mollaro darkly.  "But it also means this city will be thick with fucking Braavosi."  He shook his head.   
  
The fight was continuing, but Janos rather doubted the handful of Dragon ships left would be capable of much, and so he went to collect his cloth with the porters in tow, much to their disappointment.  He brought it back to his shop, paid the men, and then went back home.  
  
Asynda was sitting with the baby on her lap when he returned.  Janos kissed her and the child on the forehead, and then sat down next to them.  "How was your day?" she asked quietly.  
  
"Oh, fair enough, fair enough," he said.  "I got some very nice cloth."


	43. Eddard

**EDDARD**  
  
"Off to Harr'nhal to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho," sang Gerion Lannister on the back of his pretty pale mare as he road beside his nephew.  "I'll steal a sweet kiss with the point of my blade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho..."  
  
Ned gave a dull sigh.  Gerion had arrived from King's Landing two weeks ago, and since then had been ceaselessly regaling the company with his singing.  He heard the man's variation of the old song about Gulltown countless times since his arrival, and was getting quite tired of it--but Gerion was proving quite proof to all hints in this direction, and something told Ned that direct confrontation would prove just as fruitless.  There was, he considered, a class of men who viewed the world as their personal plaything, and Gerion Lannister was one of them.  Once again, Ned wondered if Gerion had some dalliance at Harrenhal he was planning to enjoy, and once again, he decided it was none of his business.   
  
_We will be there soon,_ he thought, glancing ahead.  Harren the Black's oversized castle had come into view several days ago, though Ned had known from prior experience that it would still be some time before they reached it.  Ned had thought the twisted, giant fortress an ominous sight when he'd first seen it, nearly three years ago, and now, haunted as it was by bad memories, it seemed even more so.  He took a deep breath.  _Don't be a fool, Ned.  History or no, it is a castle like any other, and those that say otherwise are... simply impressionable folk allowing their imaginations to run away with them._

Theo Wull rode up beside him, and gave a shudder.  "I swear that thing is unnatural.  I hear Manfryd o' the Black Hood still rides from its gates on moonless nights."  
  
Ned smiled despite himself.  "That's quite a feat for a man who's been dead nearly a century."  
  
"The Black Hood was no natural man," muttered Theo Wull, glancing around nervously.  "They say he consorted with his own daughter, Mad Danelle... if she truly was his daughter..."  He leaned towards his friend.  "And some say that even death did not end this unholy coupling..."  
  
"Some will say just about anything, Bucket," said Will Dustin, coming up on the back of his fine red stallion, with a chuckle.  "It passes the time."  
  
"You do not believe the tales then, Will?" asked Ned.  
  
The young Lord Dustin gave a snort. "I live in what is supposed to be the most haunted castle in the North, Ned.  And I will be hanged if I have seen anything more remarkable than a few large rats within its walls."  He clicked his tongue and stroked his pale brown beard.  "Well, no, that is not true.  I have seen Barbrey naked within it, though that is a different, infinitely more pleasant sort of remarkable..."  
  
Theo rolled his eyes.  "I still say it is a place of ill omen.  Every damn house that's held it has come to a bad end, save the Whents."  He turned to Howland Reed, seated nearby on a small pony, with Ethan Glover riding behind him.  "Howland--you know of what I speak."  
  
"Better than you do," said Reed.  He gave a sigh.  "I agree.  Wicked pride and cruel ambition built her, and they have marked her since then.  Woe is bound into the very stones of Harren's great hall, and woe shall mark her  until she falls."  
  
There was an ominous silence, and then Will gave a laugh.  "By the gods, Howland, we're going to eat there tonight, whether you or Theo like it or not."  
  
"I for one have as many good memories as ill of Harrenhal," said Ethan quietly. "And I hope to have more good ones after this evening."  
  
"So do we all, Ethan," agreed Ned.  He glanced ahead down the road, and saw with surprise a small group of horsemen riding towards them.  As they came closer, Eddard recognized Allan Whent at their head.  "Ser Allan," he said with nod.  
  
"Lord Stark," said the dark-eyed heir to Harrenhal.  "My lady mother heard news of your coming and sent me to escort you to Harrenhal."  
  
"She does us honor," said Ned.  
  
"You have done the realm honor," answered Allan, with sad smile.  "She simply wishes to do likewise." He glanced back at Jaime and Gerion Lannister.  "Is that... Ser Jaime...?"  
  
"And his uncle," said Will Dustin with a sigh.   "Well--his youngest uncle..."  
  
Allan frowned slightly, then forced on a smile.  "Rest assured even he will not lack for company here.  There shall be many reunions tonight in Harrenhal."


	44. The Foul-Smelling Flower

**THE FOUL-SMELLING FLOWER**  
  
"I swear," muttered Paxter Redwyne, "just when I was convinced that young Lord Velaryon could be no more foolish, he proceeds to show he has yet to plumb the limits of his witlessness!"  
  
"What is it now?" said Prince Oberyn, sipping his wine as he glanced at the ships assembled in the harbor of Oldtown.  
  
Paxter Redwyne gave a snort and a shake of his prematurely balding head.  "Oh, it is grand.  The great admiral of the Narrow Sea is insulted at the ships he has been given, and insists I hand to him a vessel worthy of a Velaryon.  Namely, my own _Arbor Queen_..."   Paxter gave a fierce snarl at that, one that was almost comical, coming from such a small man.  
  
Garth sighed.  "Perhaps a compromise.  As I understand it, Lord Celtigar's _Jeweled Claw_ is sitting useless in the harbor..."  
  
Oberyn gave an exaggerated clicking of his tongue. "Such a shame about his illness," noted the Dornish Prince.  "These old men's bowels, they are so delicate."  
  
Paxter went slightly pale at this.  
  
"A fact I know well," stated Garth levelly.  "Indeed whatever pleasure I take in his absence from Small Council meetings is mitigated by the fact that it is all a stunning reminder of mine own mortality."  He sighed and shook his massive head.  "Oh, failing flesh so frought with fraility!"  
  
Lord Redwyne glanced away.  "I will... look into this."  
  
"Please be quick on it," said the Lord Seneschal in a tone of glorious abstraction.  A young, slightly stout moon-faced lad entered holding a large gilded goblet before Garth. "Ahh!  Thank you, Garse. This shall soothe an old man's parched throat."  Garth took it, raised it to his lips and took a swallow.  "Ahh, very fine, Garse.  Has Lord Peake arrived yet?"  
  
"He has sir," answered the young man.    
  
"Good," said Garth.  "Let him stew for now." He glanced at Paxter as Garse exited the room.  "We do appreciate your handling young Monford.  Do consider the lad's situation.  His father went to the Free Cities when the rebellion started swearing he would bring back an army that would win Aerys his war.  Instead he caught a knife in the back of a Lyseni brothel."  Garth gave a sad shake of his head.  "Most of the Driftmark fleet sunk in the great storm, what was left... well, it did what it could, for as long as it could.  But that, alas, was only so much.  Now, Lord Velaryon is a man living on pretensions.  He has one ship to call his own, and the _Pride of Driftmark_ is sitting useless in that very harbor, still being repaired from the trip it took to get here."  The Lord Seneschal gave an epic shrug.  "Indulge the boy just a bit.  Even if it does chafe."  
  
Paxter took a seat, grumbling.  "It more than chafes.  This war... the King is here in Oldtown right now because I took him here, at great risk to myself, I will add.  It was I who convinced Ser Darry and the Queen Mother... Seven rest her sweet soul... that those loyal to the Dragon needed to see their king, that..."  
  
"We know this, Lord Redwyne," said Prince Oberyn.  "And we are thankful.  Your deeds in bringing first the King and then his royal sister here will resound down the ages..."  
  
"A tough voyage, that second one," muttered Paxter.  "I... we'd hoped..."  
  
"This is not the time to speak of hopes, Paxter," said Garth.  "Hopes are bastards born of wine and folly, and they always betray you in the end."  
  
Oberyn blinked.  "Bitter words, Lord Seneschal.  I am surprised."  
  
Garth gave an expansive wave of his hand.  "It is the drink," he stated.  "At the moment, it fills my mind with memories of my past--of the Citadel--and of my sweet Ser Bardell Oldflowers..."  He gave a wistful sigh.  Oberyn raised an eyebrow.  "A dear... dear friend of mine," said Garth.  "From mine wasted youth."  He idly ran a chubby finger over the rim of his goblet. "Gone now, alas.  But never forgotten."  He cleared his throat.  "Garse!  More wine!"  
  
Paxter glanced out the window.  "Are you going to deal with Lord Peake soon?" he muttered.  "I dislike toying with men as if they were mice, and you a cat."  
  
"And I enjoy it immensely," replied Garth.  "As well you know."  Garse entered with a pitcher of wine, which he poured into Garth's goblet.  "Good lad.  Send Lord Peake in.  And then stay.  I have a feeling we will need some fine Arbor Gold to get through this meeting."    
  
Oberyn watched him leave, then looked at Garth.  "I thought you enjoyed toying with men," stated Oberyn.  
  
"I do," said the Lord Seneschal.  "But I also enjoy the part that comes after that."  He shrugged.  "Games lose savor without completion."  
  
Garse reentered the room with a slender man in early middle age clad in black and orange, his black hair a wild and unkempt mane rising from his head.  "I say, Garth Tyrell, I say, will not have this!" he declared striding towards the Lord Seneschal.  "I am the seven-hundred-seventy-seventh Lord of Starpike, and I will not have this!"  He brought his hands down on the table with a slam.  
  
"Hello, Lord Peake," stated Garth flatly.  "Do take a seat."  
  
Titus Peake stood away and wrapped his arms around himself, as if attempting to give himself a hug.  "This is an outrage-- **AN OUTRAG** E!  My father..."  Titus' nostrils flared, and he stomped his feet against the floor.  He turned to regard Lord Paxter. "Lord Redwyne--will you let another true descendant of Garth Greenhand be hounded by a Tyrell?  By **THIS** Tyrell?"  
  
"Take a seat, Lord Peake," muttered Paxter.  
  
Titus began to pace urgently around the room.  "Oh, the indignity!  The outrage!  **THE OUTRAGE**!  First the Florents, and now... **AN OUTRAGE**!"  
  
Oberyn sighed.  "Lord Peake, will every single one of us have to insist you take a seat?"  
  
Titus whirled around and glared at him.  "Oh, ho, perhaps I have missed my mark, hmmm?  Perhaps it is not the Tyrells who plot against me but this... _Dornish sybarite_!"  He jabbed a long finger at the Prince's face.  "I will not stand for this, Red Viper-- _I will not stand for it_!  I am a Peake of Starpike, do you hear?  **A PEAKE OF STARPIKE**!"  
  
"Of course I hear," answered Oberyn.  "You have been shouting since you entered the room.  A deaf man would hear you.  Now, take a seat, or fear, yes, you will stand for this."  His eyes narrowed subtly.  
  
Titus turned abruptly and sat down before them.  "This an outrage," he mumbled.  "I will not forget this."  
  
"That I most assuredly believe," said Garth.  "Now then, Lord Peake, there is some concern about certain messages being passed to you..."  
  
Titus jumped back up to his feet.  "I knew it!  This is about my wife!  You... impudent..."  He looked away.  "My Margot is innocent of... she may be a Lannister, but that does not mean..."  
  
"Again, we ask you to sit down, Lord Peake," said Oberyn through clenched teeth.    
  
Titus Peake strode towards the Red Viper.  "And again I say I am the seven-hundred-seventy-seventh Lord of Starpike, and I will do as I see fit!  Oh, the indignity, the cruelty, it maddens me!  That Lord of the Marches could be so vexed by a Dornishman..."  
  
Garth stood up and placed himself between Lorde Peake and Prince Oberyn.  "Enough, Titus, enough," he said levelly, giving the lord a slight, reassuring pat on the back.  "We are not accusing you of anything, we simply wish some answers..."  
  
Titus jerked away from him.  "And as a Lord of the Reach, I say--they seem like accusations to me, and I will give **NO** answers at your whim.  If you wish to charge me, then do so.  I want a proper trial, not some... backroom farce."  
  
Paxter glanced out the window again, and Oberyn sighed.  "Perhaps you would like a drink, mmm?"  He glanced at Garse.  "Pour him a drink, if you could please...?"  Garse gave a bow, and began to.  
  
"I will take no wine here," grumbled Titus, taking a seat.    
  
"Then you will miss some fine Arbor Gold," stated Garth. "In fact..."  He finished his wine.  "Pour me some more will you, my lad?"  Garse went to him and filled the goblet again, then handed Titus his cup.  Lord Peake stared at it suspiciously, shifting his eyes towards Garth.  Once he seemed convinced that the Lord Seneschal wasn't going to keel over dead, he took a small sip.  
  
"I hope you find your drink to your liking," said Prince Oberyn.  
  
"It will serve," replied Titus grimly, glaring at him.   
  
"Perhaps you wish to suggest a toast?" continued the Prince.  
  
"Are you...?"  Titus leapt to his feet again, and moved slightly unsteadily towards the Prince.  "Is this more mockery?  You call me from my home, you accuse me to my face, and then on top of that, _you mock me_!"  He slammed his cup before Oberyn.  "I will not stand for it, I will not..."  
  
"But you are," said Oberyn.  "Again.  After we keep telling you to sit."    
  
Titus grumbled to himself and took a swig from his drink.  "The times... my father is lucky he's dead..." he muttered, then coughed.  "The Lord of Starpike... taking orders from a Dornishman!"  His nostrils flared and he coughed again.  "The indignity."    
  
"We understand, Lord Peake," said Garth with a roll of his eyes.  "You are offended bitterly by this state of affairs.  But I fear it is what it is."  Titus Peake snorted at that, and coughed again.  "Now you may be agreeable and make things easier for all of us, or you may continue to raise a fuss and..."  Titus coughed again, this one a long fit.  "Dear me," said Garth.  "Lord Peake, are you all right?"  
  
"Throat..." Titus coughed again.  "Tickling..."  He coughed again a jet of blood spurted from his mouth.  Titus Peake stared at it for a moment, and then began to cough again, pitching forward and landing on the ground.    
  
There was silence for a moment, and then everyone in the room rushed towards the failing lord.  Paxter Redwyne waved at Garse.  "You... go get a maester!"  
  
"I don't think it will help much," said Garth, his hand resting lightly against the lord's neck.  "I fear Lord Peake is dead."


	45. The Khal

**THE KHAL**  
  
Khal Drogo regarded the war-trophies of the khalasar across the river, and gave a worried sigh. He looked at his bloodriders. "Tell me have my eyes made an error here?"  
  
Cohollo frowned.  "I see the banners of Khal Arno, the banners of Khal Lerro, the banners of Khal Orag..."  
  
Qotho spat upon the ground.  "Many banners of many Khals."  He regarded the men.  "There cannot be more than... ten thousand warriors there."  
  
"Fifteen thousand, I would say," answered Cohollo.  
  
"Our strength is still greater," snapped Qotho.  
  
"Great enough to risk an attack?" asked the older bloodrider.  
  
"If necessary," muttered Qotho.  
  
"Across a river?" continued Cohollo.  
  
Qotho seemed to be on the verge of losing his temper, so Drogo raised his hand.  "They have not made any motion to attack us."  Drogo frowned.  "In these times... if Vaes Dothrak is no more, I will not shed the blood of my own without cause."  
  
"A noble thought," said Cohollo.  "Let us hope the khal of this great khalasar agrees with you."  
  
A subtle and polite cough came from behind the khal and his bloodriders.  "Great Khal," said Glarus Glyn Gleisai, in his soft and silky tones.  "Your distress reaches the ears of the one before you, who realizes that he may be of use to you in this matter."  The Qartheen made a great and elaborate bow.  "If it please the Great Khal."  
  
Qotho glared at Glarus.  "Speak to the point, milk man."  
  
The Qartheeni remained in his bow, keeping his pale eyes on Drogo.  "You wish to know if the khalasar on the other side of the river means you harm.  Simply send myself to see them.  I am of small value to you, after all, and as for myself, I would count it towards the lifting of the great debt that you hold over this man of no account."  
  
Drogo considered, and then gave a nod.  "Very well."  
  
Glarus gave a sniffle, and wiped some tears from his eyes.  "I thank you, Great Khal, for accepting my worthless and meritless offer."  Then with great springing steps, the Qartheen raced back to his horse, and leapt upon it. The Dothraki watched the brightly-dressed figure race forward, their bemusement obvious on their faces.  
  
"Why have we not killed that milk man yet?" asked Qotho absently.  
  
Haggo blinked at this.  "We saved the milk man's life," he noted, a rather surprising firmness in his voice.  But then, Drogo realized, it had been Haggo who found Glarus on the ground, covered in blood and weeping.   
  
Qotho rolled his eyes.  "Which means he is ours to do with as we wish."  
  
"He is a merchant," said Cohollo, quietly.  
  
"A merchant who has lost all his goods," replied Qotho.  
  
"What will the other merchants who travel with us think if we kill him?" continued Cohollo.  
  
"That they had better watch themselves!" snapped Qotho.  He turned to look Drogo in the eye.  "My Khal--the milk man grows too familiar!"  Drogo stared at him blankly, doing his best to keep calm.  "And these other merchants...  They slow us down, Khal..."  
  
"You recall I am the Khal, Qotho," said Drogo.  "Good.  We will not kill Glarus Glyn Gleisai."  He looked across the river, where the brightly clad Qartheen was talking to several Dothraki, using vast and expressive gestures as he did so.  "He is doing us a favor in this.  And really, what would killing him get us?"  
  
The Qartheeni ended his conversation, and then returned over the river, a hand on the enormous, slightly ridiculous red hat the man wore.  "Great Khal," declared Glarus, seeming to avoid looking directly at Khal Drogo, "I am sent with a message from the Khal on the other side of the river, though I confess it seems as nonsense to this humble person."  
   
Drogo raised an eyebrow.  "What is it?"  
  
"He tells me to bid you remember the lion with one ear," said the Qartheen.  Drogo blinked at this.  "Obviously, it is a code, or a reference to something that..."  But Glarus Glyn Glesai never finished that sentence, for Khal Drogo spurred on his horse, and crossed the river.   
  
_This proves the Great Stallion is guiding our path,_ thought the young Khal as he raced forward, his bloodriders following.  As he reached the other side, he was greeted by a familiar face.  "Khal Drogo," said the Dothraki before him, a slight smile on his face.   
  
"Khal Pono," answered Drogo.  The two men clasped hands, with a laugh. "I am Khal, and you are Khal--let us meet here in brotherhood."  
  
Pono nodded.  "To this I agree."  He looked at his bloodriders and kos.  "This man is Drogo, son of Bharbo, my kinsman, and my friend, and I will not see blood shed between his and ours.  He asks for a truce--and I give it to him!"   
  
A great cry came from the great men of Pono's khalasar.  Drogo was surprised to see that Glarus Glyn Glesai had followed them, and was weeping copiously.  _A strange Qartheeni, this one,_ Drogo thought to himself.  But then there were many other strange things to consider--that Pono's father Po was dead, that Pono was now Khal of a khalasar almost as great as Drogo's own, which contained so many banners amongst it and.... so much else. _We will speak of it as we feast.  As the Dothraki have done since time out of mind._  
  
The feast was prepared quickly, and contained much roasted goat flesh, something that Drogo found rather disturbing, considering how his own khalasar's goat herds had swollen in these past few weeks.  And so the various khos and bloodriders of the two khals made merry in the great pavilion that was swiftly set up, he listened to Pono's tale.  
  
"Orag set upon us upon the woods," said Pono.  "Father took an arrow to the throat before he even realized what was happening. Then they were on us.  It was madness!  Simple mobs of Dothraki warriors, rushing this way and that!  In the end, I rallied my warriors to me, and we triumphed simply by keeping our heads."  Pono shook his head.  "I learned afterwords that he'd been doing it for the last month--ambushing khalasars, adding whatever was left behind when he was finished to his own.  It'd gotten a great many warriors, but... there was no order, no discipline to them. Why half of Orag's own forces turned on each other when they saw we would not be so quick to take."  
  
Drogo shook his head.  "What would make him do such a foolish thing?  Khal Orag was... never amongst the great Khals, but he was hardly so reckless."  
  
Pono sighed and gave a great shrug.  "These are strange times that make men run mad.  If what we've heard is true, Orag thought to gather an army that would let him destroy whatever forces Khal Kharo has gathered at Vaes Dothrak..."  
  
"Khal Kha... Jaro's son?"  Drogo shook his head. "Khal Dog is dead?  And his son is... at Vaes Dothrak?"  
  
"Apparently," said Pono.  "You have not heard?  The messengers have been going everywhere on the steppe."  
  
"Not in our paths it seems," answered Drogo.  
  
"Well, then, I will tell you simply," noted Pono.  "Jaro died--choked on a bone, I hear, though Kharo swears it was in battle against four men." Drogo gave a snort.  "However it occurred, Khal Dog died, and Kharo set off to deliver his mother to Vaes Dothrak.  And arrived to find it filled with corpses, with much of it burnt."  
  
"I wonder if he had anything to do with that," grumbled Drogo, reminded of the terrible things he had seen there.   
  
"Who knows?" said Pono.  "I hear a thousand stories of what happened in Vaes Dothrak, and they are all mad.  A merchant brought a demon from the south there as a slave, but it tricked him--two warriors broke the taboo against bloodshed, and the Great Stallion let his hoof fall in anger--Khal Mengqat worked a wicked spell there with a bloodmage..."  
  
"I heard something similar," said Drogo.  "Though it was Khal Preisoo who worked the spell in the tale I heard."  
  
Pono shook his head.  "That is impossible--the Headtaker is in Mantarys, buying grotesques.  I hear a child was born like a worm with neither eyes, nor limbs, and he is eager to acquire it."  
  
"Indeed?"  Drogo shuddered as he considered that.  Most Dothraki felt that such malformed children were best exposed at birth, both to prevent their becoming a burden, and to make certain that their taint did not spread.  But then Preisoo was not most Dothraki--his menagerie of freaks traveled with the band of outcasts and criminals that made up his khalasar, another sign of the Headtaker's... oddness.  It occurred to him that this suggested a reason for Khal Khaggo's fleeing down the Demon Road that neither he nor his father had considered at the time.   "Well, Preisoo's always been a mad one.  And apparently he's far away, so... good news at that.  Now... what of Khal Kharo?  We have gone far afield of him."  
  
Pono chuckled darkly at that.  "Indeed. Well, Kharo, after setting his khalasar's slaves at cleaning the ruins, was declared the Stallion that Mounts the World by his mother, as the highest ranking dosh khaleen by dint of being the only one in the city.  He bids all khals to come and attend him at Vaes Dothrak."   
  
Drogo stared for a moment in dull wonder at the blasphemy of that.  "Let none doubt he is Khal Dog's son," he said at last.  Khal Jharo had been known as 'Khal Jhano' for his habit of attacking the khalasars of others after they had fought hard battles, not unlike a scavenging dog. It occurred to Drogo that the son had most definitely managed to surpass his father in such matters.  "Are any taking his claims seriously?"  
  
"A few are apparently flocking to him," answered Pono.  He shrugged. "It is these times... men are looking for saviors in odd places, breaking all bonds..."  He gave a frustrated sigh, and gestured at Glarus Glyn Gleisai, sipping his drink in a solitary corner as he eyed the gathering in the strange detached way of the milk men.  Drogo wondered if Pono's people had given him kilmis to try and discomfit him.  If so, they were in for a surprise... Glarus drank the fermented mare's milk with no comment whatsoever, he'd discovered since they had begun traveling together.  "Your Qartheeni says he was attacked even though he came a merchant, on the way to Vaes Dothrak."  
  
"By a Khal I had never heard of before," said Drogo with a nod. "Khal Arbei, he called himself.  Or calls himself, unless someone else has killed him since we crossed paths.  The fool ran as soon as we came."  Drogo shook his head. "And he's not the only one doing it.  I've placed any merchant I can find under my protection, but... they feel that if Vaes Dothrak is gone, then the old rules no longer hold."  
  
"And they are not alone in this," said Pono.  "Have you heard of the horse-killers?"  
  
"We... have encountered several herds of horses that had had their throats slit for no reason we could see," stated Drogo.  "Is that their work?"  
  
Pono nodded.  "A strange sort of madness that.  I do not know how it started or why, but the horse-killers hold that the Great Stallion has visited a doom upon Vaes Dothrak to punish us for our impiety.  They hold that if we do not make amends by slaughtering our herds, the Dothraki shall vanish, our destiny to conquer the world withheld from us as punishment.  But if we kill all our horses, then the Great Stallion shall stamp his hoof again, and a great herd of his divine children shall emerge from the waters at Vaes Dothrak, and we shall ride out in glory."  
  
Drogo glanced out at the feast.  "I have not met these men--but I suspect I have met their goat herds, in my travels."  
  
Pono raised an eyebrow.  "You as well?"  He shook his head.  "I tell you it is... unnatural.  First, Vaes Dothrak and then... whole khalasars vanishing into the sea, leaving only... traces behind..."  Pono's face took on a pained expression  "I do not think it just the horse-killers.  Or all the fighting that has started on the sea.  But as to what else it is..."  He gave a great shrug.  
  
Silence fell between the two khals for a long moment.  "So where are you taking your khalasar?" Drogo asked at last.  
  
Pono smiled at this.  "An interesting question," he said.  "There are many... tempting opportunities.  Khal Zekko recently left Qohor with a hefty tribute, and he is calling Khals to him to suggest... some great project, though he will not say what.  And in the east, Khal Ogo had been plundering the Lhazarene when he heard of the doom of Vaes Dothrak.  Afterwards, he crossed the river, and laid waste to Hesh, for he said it was unjust that the Lamb Men's city should stand when Vaes Dothrak had fallen." He gave Drogo a pointed look.  "The plunder was great, and Kosrak and Lhazosh of course, gave him a great tribute afterwards to be spared."  
  
"There is a point to this story," muttered Drogo impatiently.  
  
"Ogo took the tribute, and went to Mereen to sell his slaves--and he remains there, gathering men, for he plans to return to the lands of Lhazarene, and to lay waste to Kosrak, and to Lhazosh, and to Hesh once again, where the Lamb Men are once again raising the walls the Dothraki tore down."  Pono chuckled at that.  
  
"One must acknowledge their persistence, if nothing else," said Drogo. "Does he not fear the Lhazarene may not be so easily taken if attacked again so soon?"  
  
"They are the Lamb Men," answered Pono.  "I'm told a raving prophet appeared in Hesh afterwards, saying the Great Shepherd had appeared to him, calling on the Lhazarene to take up arms and drive the Dothraki from their lands.  The Godsmen of the Temple drove him out into the Red Waste."  
  
Drogo nodded.  Such prophets often appeared amongst the Lhazarene after a particularly bad raid, and generally suffered fates such as these at the hands of the Godsmen who ruled the placid sheep-herders.  The Lhazarene had ever been a peaceful people, and the Godsmen knew the value of paying off the khals.  And that men who claimed a closer relation to the Great Shepherd than the Godsmen might be dangerous to them in the near future.  Not that they ever killed such people, of course--that was forbidden.  No, they merely drove them off to die elsewhere, most of the time.  Though his father had told him of a time that the Godsmen had tied a man by his feet to tree that lay by the river, and laid his death upon the river when the rope snapped.  
  
"So that is your plan then?" said Drogo.  "Go east, and join Ogo in destroying the Lhazarene?"  
  
"Did I say that?" said Pono.  "No, my plan is elsewise.  You see, Drogo--on the night I became khal, I had a dream.  Afterwards, I spoke of it to my mother who revealed its meaning to me.  And that dream has guided me on the nights since then, for it was a true dream, sent by the Great Stallion."  
  
"Then good fortune, Khal Pono," replied Drogo, "and may you find what the Stallion bid you look for..."  
  
"But I have," answered Pono with a smile.  "Since that night, Khal Drogo, I have looked for you, so that my khalasar may join yours on its journey."


	46. Catelyn

**CATELYN**  
  
"House Whent welcomes you, bold warriors and great lords, to Harrenhal," said young Alysanne Whent, raising her goblet high, as the servants offered the bread and salt. "Partake of our hospitality, and may you not find it poor and wanting." Her mother Shella smiled at her, as did Alysanne's brothers, Allan and Olyvar. Catelyn watched her young cousin with approval. Alysanne was a growing into a lovely young woman, gracious and well-mannered, a prize to whatever young lord won her hand. Indeed, many of the men who were coming seemed quite taken with her, from awkward young Theo Wull to polished, older Gerion Lannister. _How they will crowd around her,_ thought Catelyn, with just a touch of envy. She had been betrothed to Brandon at a very young age, and so the suitors many young ladies of her station attracted had not come. Unless one counted Petyr but of course, that had...  
  
Catelyn shut her eyes, and shook her head. That whole affair was nothing but folly upon folly, and she was fortunate to put it behind her. _As was Petyr, the silly, sweet boy. Still, Lysa tells me he is doing well._ She opened her eyes and glanced out at the guests. Alysanne had sat down by her mother, the nearly identical outfits they'd chosen to wear making the resemblence between the pair almost startling. Shella's black hair was marked with grey as her daughter's was not, and her face bore lines where Alysanne's was smooth but still, the Lady of Harrenhal remained a beautiful and stately woman. Lady Whent was standing now, smiling at the crowd, many of whom, Catelyn realized, were taking their seats.  
  
"Good people, dear allies," she stated in her calm, deep voice, "our long period of hardship is coming to an end. While a few foolishly fight on for Prince Viserys, it is a desperate and losing struggle. We have already had a raven from King's Landing, telling us that the Velaryon pirates that have been plaguing the Blackwater Bay are utterly routed, that Claw Isle and Driftmark have been taken, and that troops have already been landed in Sweetwater Sound on Dragonstone. And so, as we sit for a feast, I bid you all join me in a toast--to King Stannis!"  
  
"To King Stannis!" came the cry, and perhaps it was Catelyn's imagination, but the cheers of the young King's name seemed to be produced more by duty than enthusiasm. _Unfair, Cat, unfair,_ she reminded herself. _You have never even seen this man that folk are dying for, so far from here._ Perhaps she would ask her husband about him, later. Catelyn narrowed her eyes, to try once again and find Ned amongst the crowd. She glanced over a slightly disheveled-looking man with long black hair to try and pick him out, and then realized, as he walked towards her, that this was her husband. She glanced at the table, in nervous embarrassment. _We have not seen each other in months_ , she reminded herself. _And before that we had never seen each other at all._ "My lady," said Ned, quietly, as he reached her.  
  
"My lord," she replied, feeling a sudden deep and abiding interest in the floor to her right for some unfathomable reason.  
  
"By the Gods' red eyes," muttered a handsome man whose own black hair was done in a neatly tied ponytail. He gave a disgusted shake of his head. "Is this how you two greet?" He gave Ned a slap on the back. "Kiss her, man! Kiss her until her toes curl!"  
  
A man she recognized as Ethan Glover sighed. "Leave Ned and Cat alone, Will. It's their own reunion, not yours."  
  
"And don't I know it," said Will walking towards his friend. "Trust me, when Barbrey and I are reunited, people will feel the mountains shake all the way down in the Reach!"  
  
"Of course, they will," muttered Theo Wull, with a roll of his eyes.  
  
Catelyn turned back to Ned, who seemed about to say something, when a loud cry interrupted him. "Jaime!" called Tyrion Lannister, as his brother lifted him into a hug.  
  
"It's good to see you too, Tyrion," said Jaime with a laugh.  
  
"You impetuous imp," declared Gerion Lannister, beaming at his nephews. "Whose idea was it to send you here?"  
  
"Aunt Genna's," said Tyrion, his ugly face as cheerful as his kin as his brother lowered him gently to the ground.  
  
"I should have known," said Gerion with a laugh. He glanced at Lady Shella, and sighed. "Well, I will leave you two to catch up. I've business with our estimable hostess..."  
  
As the Lannister brothers began their reminisces, Catelyn found herself envying them, for all that one looked like a monster, and the other bore the reputation of one. Their reunion was that of two people who knew each other. She and Eddard Stark has spent most of their marriage so far separated. _What can we speak of?_ she thought desperately. _The brother we both knew, the man I was supposed to wed instead of him..._  
  
"It is nice to see you again, my lady," said her husband quietly. "After such a long time."  
  
"I... thank you," said Catelyn blushing. "It is nice to see you again as well."


	47. Jaime

**JAIME**  
  
"In truth," said Black Walder Frey quietly, the music playing lightly in the background almost drowning out his soft voice, "it was a great shock to me, to learn he had died. Oh, Grandfather had his complaints, but he'd had them for years, and it did not seem likely to me that he would be carried off by them. When I heard that he had fallen gravely ill, I turned back, but he had passed on by the time I arrived." He paused to tear off a little chunk of his bread and dunk into his bowl of beef broth. "Truly, a great tragedy for my house. Ser Stevron was a pillar of House Frey, and a worthy heir to mine great-grandfather. With his passing..." Black Walder shook his head, and gave a ponderous sigh. "I can only hope my father proves up to the burden, when he becomes the Lord Frey."  
  
Hoster Tully nodded with a glint in his bright blue eyes that somehow reminded Jaime of his father. "Oh, indeed. So do we all," he said, a slightly amused smile on his face. "Indeed, we all wonder who can possibly replace Lord Frey of the Twins when he at last passes from this life."  
  
Black Walder's eyes narrowed, as if he felt he saw an insult hidden in that statement, but whatever he saw in Hoster Tully's face quieted him. Jaime glanced at his uncle, who was still peering intently at the Northern lord's sword. "And you say it is called 'Longclaw'?" he said, paying special attention to the sword's hilt, with its stylized bear's head. "And that it came into your family from the defeat of an ironman reaver five hundred years ago?"  
  
Lord Jeor Mormont nodded his shaggy head, the pride obvious. "An ironman _lord_ ," he stated. "There to reclaim what my forefathers had torn from their grasp." A fierce smile touched his face. "We did not let them regain it, and took that lord's blade and life."  
  
Gerion managed a distracted nod. "Mmmm. And was this lord a Blacktyde?"  
  
Lord Mormont gave a shrug of his broad shoulders. "He may have been. The stories do not say."  
  
"I ask," stated Gerion cheerfully, as he returned the sword to the older man, "because this may very well be a lost blade of my family's."  
  
The conversation went from occupying a dim half-portion of Jaime's attention to holding it fully. "Brightroar?" he said suddenly. "But that's impossible! It can't be..."  
  
"Brightroar, Brightroar, Brightroar," said his uncle with an ironic, rueful shake of his head. He looked at Jeor Mormont and raised his eyebrows. "They practically give you tales of that one at the teat in Casterly Rock, so of course, half the young lads run mad of it." He turned to Jaime. "No, lad, not Brightroar. As you noted, that is impossible--we lost that sword nearly four hundred years ago after the Doom of Valyria, and it was a true greatsword, not a hand-and-a-halfer. The Mormonts' Longclaw may be--MAY be, I point out--the far less storied, far less sought for Goldenfang, lost considerably longer ago during the reign of Loreon IV in a battle against Joron Blacktyde." He sighed. "Well, calling it a battle may be a misnomer. Loreon assembled his men to strike against the ironmen, panicked when he saw them, and threw his sword to the ground and began to beg for his life, while, some sources say, pissing himself." He clapped his hands together. "And so the blade Goldenfang passed from our hands, after being in our possession for over three centuries--thrice as long as Brightroar, but there it stands."  
  
Jeor Mormont chuckled at that. "You're not going to ask for it back are you?"  
  
Gerion smiled. "As I told you, Lord Mormont, Brightroar's the sword we Lannisters run mad for. If that is Goldenfang, you've held it longer and better than we ever did." He leaned forward. "Tell me... did the hilt used to be golden...?"  
  
"Not as I heard it," said Jeor. "But then, we're poor lords up at Bear Island. If it was gold when we got it, it wouldn't have stayed so long."  
  
"Doubted it would be," said Gerion with a nod. "Honestly, I rather doubt it was when you Mormonts got it. They're poor lords in the Iron Islands too..."  
  
A burst of applause started as young Alysanne Whent finished singing of Jonquil and her Florian. Jaime looked across the way to see his brother laughing and clapping, the Greyjoy brothers pausing from shoveling food into their faces to join him. For the first time in his life, Jaime felt an envy for his brother, mixed with the pity. For Tyrion was still a part of this company, despite his deformity, while Jaime was not, but instead somehow, even while with them, separate. He shook his head and glanced at his cup. _I have been drinking too much,_ he thought. _The wine is making me moody._  
  
"Well sung, lass," said Hoster. He turned to Gerion. "What say you? Jonquil could not sing it better..."  
  
"As I doubt they'd made the song about her when she was alive, I must agree, Lord Tully," said his uncle.  
  
Barbara Bracken stood from her seat and regarded the company, as her sister glanced away awkwardly. "Well, I feel I must repay this hospitality. Shall I perhaps favor the company with a song, as our pretty young hostess has, hmmm?" A mighty cheer came from the guests. Barbara laughed, and glanced at the harper as she strode onto the floor. "It seems I shall. Do you know 'Young Walgrave', good harper?"  
  
The man gave her a rather scandalized look. "I know most songs, my lady, but that one is..."  
  
Barbara Bracken smirked at him. "I know what that song is, sir. That's why I ask you to play it."  
  
"Be a good man, and do as the lady requests!" shouted a lounging man with a thin, saturnine face who sat towards the side of the hall.  
  
Barbara turned towards him and grinned. "Why, Ser," she said, in slightly mocking tones, "to think I have you as my champion in this matter."  
  
"Am I not a good knight and true?" answered the man, grinning back at her.  
  
"Nay, Ser Ronald, you are not," said Barbara. "As well I know."  
  
A peal of laughter rang through the company, though none laughed so hard as Ser Ronald himself. "As many ladies know," he said. He clapped his hands. "Come. Sing the song! I've yet to hear it from a Lady Bracken."  
  
"And you'll not hear it from one now," answered Barbara merrily. "I am no lady." Ser Ronald chuckled and seemed about to speak. "Being my father's daughter and not his wife," she added quickly. She pointed at the young knight. "Do not say what was on your lips, you bad one, you."  
  
Ser Ronald raised his glass. "For you, sweet lady, I'll mind my wicked tongue." He looked again at the harper. "Now play, man. Play!"  
  
The harper began to play a quick, lilting tune, as Barbara Bracken tapped her foot in time. After a moment, she began to sing.  
  
"It fell upon a holy day,  
As comes every year  
Young Walgrave to the sept went  
The Seven's words to hear.  
  
But his eyes chanced to stray  
Upon the ladies fair and bright  
And the Mother's Mercy fled his mind  
As he took in the sight.  
  
One of them was clad in red,  
Another clad in green,  
And one was Lord Bracken's wife  
As fair as any queen."  
  
Jaime found himself draining his cup again, and then setting down, and watching, with dull wonder, the serving maid refill it. Glancing over the crowd he saw young Alysanne sitting down beside her mother, who was idly brushing her daughter's hair. Alysanne whispered something to her mother who smiled and kissed her on the forehead. Jaime felt suddenly cold. Barbara Bracken's voice seemed louder now.  
  
" 'Come to my chamber at Stone Hedge  
And you will know delight,  
For this I swear, Young Walgrave,  
You'll lie in my arms all night.'  
  
Said he, 'My sweet lady fair,  
What of your husband grim?  
As you are my lady, he is my lord  
And I would not anger him.'  
  
'Oh, I am Lord Bracken's wife,  
But Lord Bracken's not at home,  
For he has gone to the far fields  
Where the yearlings roam.'  
  
And answered Young Walgrave,  
And he did speak it true,  
'Then to my weal or to my woe  
I'll come and lie with you.' "  
  
Jaime worried the wine was going to his head--he felt somewhat faint. He glanced at his uncle, who was now quietly muttering things to Lord Hoster. Gerion paused from his conversation to look at his nephew. "Why, Jaime, what is it? You look as if you've seen a ghost."  
  
Hoster Tully sipped his drink. "This is certainly the castle for it."  
  
" 'But if this be false, my young page,  
This news you grant to me,  
Then I'll be sure to hang you by your neck  
From my highest tree.'  
  
And Lord Bracken, he called up his men,  
'Come saddle you my steed,  
For I must this night to Stone Hedge,  
So great is my need.' "  
  
Jaime glanced at the floor. "I... it's just the wine, uncle. Nothing more."  
  
Jeor Mormont gave him a sympathetic glance. "Perhaps I could help him to a window, hmmm?"  
  
"I... if you please, Lord Mormont," muttered Jaime, getting awkwardly to his feet. The massive Northerner stood up, and took Jaime by the shoulders. Jaime felt certain every eye at the table was on them as they made their way to one of the hall's over-sized windows.  
  
" 'Lie still, lie still, Young Walgrave,  
And hold me against the cold,  
It is but a shepherd's boy,  
Driving his sheep to their fold.  
  
'Is not your hawk upon a perch?  
Your steed eats oats and hay.  
And you've a fair dame in your arms--  
Would you be away?'  
  
Then Walgrave he gave his love a kiss,  
And then they went asleep,  
And wake again they would not,  
Till Lord Bracken was at their feet."  
  
"Everything in this blasted place is too big," muttered Lord Jeor glancing at the hall with a resentful eye, as they finally reached the window.  
  
Jaime leaned out the window and took a gulp of the cool evening air. "I... thank you, Lord Mormont," he said.  
  
Mormont looked away. "I've a son twice your age," he said. "With a wife of his own, and a child expected." He looked at Jaime. "Tell me, Ser, what does it mean when so many young men have seen so much ended before its time? I still can't fathom it."  
  
Jaime thought on it, briefly then shut his eyes. "You're asking the wrong Lannister. My uncle is the one who thinks about things." He smiled. "Or my brother, but he's a bit young."  
  
Jeor chuckled and looked at Barbara Bracken singing with a strange energy.  
  
" 'Get up, get up,' Lord Bracken cried,  
'Get up as quick as you can,  
It'll never said in these fair lands  
That I slew a naked man!'  
  
'I will not rise, I dare not rise  
I won't upon my life!  
For you bear two beaten swords,  
And I not a hunting knife!'  
  
'Tis true I bear two beaten swords,  
Full dear they cost my purse,  
But you shall have the better of them,  
And I shall take the worse.  
  
'And you will strike the very first blow  
And strike it like a man!  
And I will strike the very next blow,  
And kill you if I can!' "  
  
Jeor regarded the crowd. "When Lord Stark called his banners, and we went south, we were rebels. Now, we head home, friends to the Iron Throne again. And yet, in a season... who knows where we will be?" He sighed. "I apologize. All this youth makes me feel my years."  
  
Jaime didn't know how to answer that, so he simply joined the older man in watching Barbara Bracken finish her song.  
  
"And then up spoke his fair wife,  
Never heard to speak so free,  
'I'd rather a kiss from dead Walgrave's lips,  
Then you and your finery.'  
  
Lord Bracken then he leapt up,  
And loudly he did bawl,  
He struck his lady through the heart  
And pinned her against the wall.  
  
'A grave, a grave,' Lord Bracken cried,  
'To place these lovers in!  
But bury my lady nearer the top,  
For hers was royal kin.  
  
'For I have killed my bravest knight--  
Oh, I would I stayed my hand!--  
And I have killed the fairest dame  
In all this wide great land.' "  
  
The harper played a little more then ended his tune. The applause began, lighter than it had been for Alysanne Whent, though it seemed to Jaime that Barbara had the finer voice. He shut his eyes, and let the breeze from the window steal over him. _It was the song,_ he thought. _It is a dark song, and these are dark times. None want to think of that, here. Now._ It occurred to Jaime, dimly, that he would want to get back in his seat.  
  
Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering, Barbara Bracken's song is a pastiche on the traditional old ballad that goes by such names as 'Matty Groves' and 'Young Musgrave'. Give it a listen some time. You won't be disappointed.


	48. The Young Kraken

**THE YOUNG KRAKEN**  
  
It occurred to Aeron Greyjoy, as he scooped up another slice of pickerel, that he had never eaten so well in all his life as he had in this solitary night in Harrenhal.  He and Urrigon had enjoyed roast onions, fine white biscuits, and a stew of lentils, cabbage and beef drippings, and all that before the main courses were brought out.  There was beef, and pork, and fish... oh such fish.  Aeron had eaten fish regularly in Pyke of course, but his meals seemed quite a poor thing to what he ate here.  On Pyke, even in the halls of the reigning Lord Greyjoy, fish was a simple dish, often salted and ashed to preserve it before it ever got to the cooking hall.  But the fish they served here--it was fresh, and flavorful and served in rich sauces that were sweet and sour and delicious all at once.  Yes, it was the finest food he'd ever eaten, just at the music played was the best he'd ever heard, and the people wore the finest clothes he'd ever seen.  
  
Barbara Bracken returned to her seat, smiling broadly.  "So what say you all?" she declared.  "A pretty song?"  Her sister Jayne frowned slightly at this, and hunched over her meal, as if trying to become as small as possible.  
  
"Very nice!" declared Tyrion.  "I've never heard that one before."  His mismatched eyes squinted at her.  "Who was the Lady Bracken?  In the song, I mean?"  He shifted nervously in his seat.  "If you don't mind the question."  
  
Barbara's broad grin focused on the dwarf.  "Faith, my little manikin, I mind it not a jot, but sadly I cannot answer you."  She gave an exaggerated shrug that drew Aeron's eyes to her chest, and then caused him to glance nervously away, in hopes she had not seen him looking.  "The song's an old one, and thus, we do not rightly know.  Some say she was a Blackwood--oh, that is a popular one--others, a Vance, or a Mudd, or a Teague, or a Justman.  One story says she was a Durrandon, Lothar Bracken's wife, and that is why he sided with the Hoares--but no one can find any proof of that, so who knows? Indeed, others say she was a Hook, or a Mooton, or a Darklyn--and yet others say she was a Stark, or a Lannister, who the Brackens did wed on occasion."  Barbara raised an eyebrow at Tyrion.  "Yes, that's right--there's wolf's blood and lion's blood in me."  
  
Ser Ronald gave a sharp laugh at that.  "Stop talking to the poor lad of what's in you, Barb. It'll corrupt his dear little soul, and then what will the septons think?"  His brother Hugo, sitting next to him, gave a cackle that set his jowels quivering, looking, with his fat face and thinning hair, ten years older than the brother who was two years his elder.  
  
"As if you've ever cared what the septons think, Ser Ronald," chuckled Barbara.  
  
Ser Ronald picked up a walnut, and placed it in the palm of his hand.  "In truth, I do not," he stated, clenching his fist. Opening it, he began to gingerly pick at the nutmeats that now lay there.  "But the lad might, I felt."  He regarded Tyrion for a moment.  "He has a wise, pious look about him."  Tyrion actually seemed pleased at the statement, to Aeron's puzzlement--Ser Ronald leaned back and yawned.  "And to be honest, I find it is false of you, my dear Barb, that you tell him every version of the tale, but the likely one--that this Lady Bracken never was, and the whole song was written at the behest of Barba Bracken to shame King Aegon for the killing of her sister."  He offered a particularly large bit of nutmeat to Barbara.  
  
Barbara smirked at him, shook her head and picked up a walnut herself.  "I do not tell that one, because unlike you, I do not believe it.  The tale's an old one, older then fat old Aegon the Unworthy."  She placed the walnut between her hands, and gave a sudden clap.  Aeron found himself staring in fascination as she pulled her hands apart, revealing the cracked shell.  Her eyes caught his suddenly, and he knew he had been caught looking.  Aeron felt the color rushing to his cheeks, as Barbara gave a chuckle.  "Oh, is my pretty little reaver boy bashful?" she said with a bright lilt. She waved a bit of nutmeat in his face.  "Would the dear little sweetling want a treat?" she declared, curling a finger in his hair.  Aeron jerked back as if scalded.  Barbara stared at him in surprise.  "By the Seven Hells and all their devils, lad, what's wrong?" she asked, dark eyes wide.  He could feel her judging him in them, and wondered briefly if she somehow could know.  There was something awful and knowing about those dark eyes of hers...  
  
"I fear your beauty has overwhelmed the boy," said Ronald Vance with a light chuckle.  "He doubtless worries that a morsel from those divine hands shall send him to whatever place the Ironmen have set aside for their valiant dead."  He placed a hand on hers, and rubbed it gently.  "Allow me to show him that his fears are groundless."  Barbara smirked at him and popped the little bit of walnut into his mouth.  Roger chewed it swiftly, then kissed her fingers.  "Exquisite as always, sweet Barb."  
  
She pulled her hand back, and gave him a small slap.   "Continue to be so free with me, and this Barb shall prick you," she stated.  
  
"And be pricked in returned," said Ser Ronald, leaning back in his chair.  
  
Ser Hugo rubbed his temples.  "Gods help me, I need more wine."  He slammed his hand on the table.  "Kirth!  Fill my cup again!"  The short brown-haired lad sitting next to him leapt up, and signaled for a bottle.  Kirth Vance was Ser Hugo's brother and his squire, a position that seemed to be little better than a thrall in Ser Hugo's mind, so far as Aeron could tell.  He glared at his elder brother, and then at Barbara. "The pair of you!  Heavens help us all, the pair of you!"  
  
"Oh, I know," murmured Barbara.  "All this talk of prickings, before polite company."  
  
Jeyne Bracken gave a frustrated growl and stood up, suddenly.  "I am going.  Elsewhere."  She stared at her sister defiantly for a moment.  
  
Barbara merely smirked.  "Well then.  Go on."  
  
Jeyne fidgeted nervously and crossed her arms.  "I really am going.  You cannot be lived with."  
  
"So I'm often told," said Barbara with a yawn.  "By you, and by Father, and by his good lady, and all the fine and pious folk that hang around Her High Holiness..."  
  
Jeyne frowned at that.  "Don't speak of mother that way."  
  
"She's not our mother," said Barbara.  "Our mother is dead, and buried and gravedust these twelve years past."  She blinked.  "My error.  These thirteen years past.  'Twas your nameday recently, I recall."  She raised an eyebrow.  "I forgot to get you a gift.  Apologies.  I shall make up for the lack shortly."  Jeyne stood there, frozen in place, her lip trembling.

  
Ser Hugo Vance took a great swallow of his drink and then stood up.  "It appears they are now playing a dance!  Indeed, I can even see the men and women taking to the floor!  And this being so,  I am going to ask young Sallei Paege for a dance!"  He turned to Aeron.  "Now--you, boy, ask young Jeyne for one."  
  
Aeron blinked.  "Wha...?"  
  
"I believe my instructions were fairly obvious," stated the portly young knight.  "Ask Jeyne Bracken to dance."  
  
Aeron slumped back in his chair.  "I...  don't know how," he muttered.  
  
"You utter words, the sense of which is you would like to dance with young Jeyne here," explained Ser Hugo.  "Then, if you are fortunate, she agrees.  It is on the whole a pleasant pastime."  
  
"I don't know how to dance," explained Aeron, fidgeting.  
  
"And neither do half the men out there," said Hugo.  "And a similar proportion of the women.  And yet, I believe they manage."  He slapped Aeron on the back.  "Do likewise!"  
  
Jeyne stared at him with wide eyes.  "You want me to dance with an ironman!" she said.  
  
Barbara gave a dark chuckle.  "My dear sister, you make it sound as if our dear cousin's insulting you, instead of trying to do you a favor."  She reached across the table and pinched Aeron's cheek.  "Such a pretty lad."  She stood up, and with a sway, moved behind him.  "What say you, my dear little reaver?  Shall I show you how it's done, so that you may give my poor little sister the benefits of my instruction?"  She snaked her arms over his shoulders.   
  
Aeron wriggled nervously out of her grip.  "I... no, ma'am.  My lady.  If you please."   
  
Barbara clicked her tongue and turned to Urri.  "What about you, dear?  Are you willing to give me a twirl?"  Urri glanced away.  Barbara placed a hand on her hip.  "Don't tell me you will both leave me pining, sad and lonesome?"  
  
"You best do as the lady asks," suggested Ronald Vance with a grin.  "Dearest Barb grows quite pointed when thwarted."  
  
Barbara snorted as she lifted Urri up from his chair.  "Oh ho, sweet Ronald.  Are you simply going to sit there?"  
  
Ronald leaned back.  "I believe I'm owed a rest at one of our meetings, my sweet."  
  
Barb threw her head back and laughed, then whirled away with a rather startled Urri.  Ser Hugo shook his head and strolled away, followed by Kirth.  Jeyne nervously sat back down, and glanced sheepishly at Aeron.  Aeron looked at his food.  Ser Ronald shut his eyes.  There was an uncomfortable silence.  
  
"Have you ever heard Lomas Lonstrider's sixteen wonders?" said Tyrion suddenly.  
  
Ser Ronald peeked one eye open.  "Assume that I have not, and begin," he stated, then closed his eye again.


	49. Cersei

**CERSEI**  
  
"The blessings of the Seven fall upon us fortunate mortals from above," rang out the High Septon's voice in the vaulting hall of Baelor's Great Sept, "like rain upon the earth.  And like the rain, should these blessings fall on fertile soil, they sprout and bring forth good things to nurture the faithful children of the Seven."  
  
 _Rain does not sprout, you **imbecile**_ , thought Cersei, seated in the pew next to her husband.  The sound of teeth grinding at her side suggested Stannis found His High Holiness' muddled metaphors as baleful as she did--he'd done so with such fierceness and frequency, she was worried he'd shatter them before the sermon was finished.  _Well, at least it would make things memorable..._  
  
"Yes, yes, the Seven grant such favors to the Faithful," continued His High Holiness, in a voice that sounded like a little child begging for jam.  "The sweet fruits of spring and summer, the grains good and wholesome things, and children, blessed children, who are a joy to their parents, and to the whole land," continued the High Septon smiling broadly.  Cersei frowned, her hand going to the now undeniable swell of her stomach. There was no missing His High Holiness' meaning here, no matter how muddled his language.   
  
_Hail to the Queen and her pregnant belly,_ she thought with a bitter scowl.  Cersei winced.  _Gods, how did this even happen?_ It was not as if she and Stannis had been that... amorous, after all.  She  tried to go over the times in her head to see if she could pinpoint the very one that had put this... _thing_ into her.  _Let's see... the wedding night, the night after, the night after that..._  
  
She had progressed to several nights after that, and a rather exceptional morning, when a sudden bit of especially fevered tooth-grinding on Stannis' part broke her count.  She turned to look at him, and saw him, glaring, face livid, eyes intent on the High Septon.  "...Peace," droned His High Holiness, "that most blessed of nectars, that brightest of blossoms, that most supreme of gifts that the Seven grant us..."   
  
Cersei frowned.  While the High Septon's latest bit of rhetoric was horribly mangled even by his prior low standards, somehow she didn't think that would provoke the response her husband was showing.  She was actually worried that it would attract notice, and lightly touched his shoulder with some vague idea of restraining him.  Stannis seemed to flinch slightly under her fingers, and then turned, saw her and relaxed.   
  
On the altar before them the High Septon was finishing his sermon.  "And thus we see that the blessings of the Seven are like unto gold, imperishable, and greatly valued, but greater than gold, for they are of the spirit, and gold is of the body, yet also..."  The High Septon blinked here.  "...Yet also beyond gold.  Because... they surpass it in... many ways."  The Voice of the Seven on Earth gave a nervous cough.  "Let us now bow our heads in prayer, as we contemplate the holy mercy of the Seven through this hymn."  
  
A chorus of septas came forward.  "I am one and lowly, but I number amongst the great," they began to sing, "for with me are the Seven, Who Are One, and rule all.  By Their will the mountains fall and the oceans rage.  And by Their mercy the pillars hold firm and the seas stay calm.  Oh, blessed mercy of the Seven you are mankind's balm!  Hail! Hail! Hail! Hail! Hail to the Seven!  Hail! Hail! Hail! Hail! Hail to the Seven!"   
  
Cersei shut her eyes and waited for the hailing of the Seven to finally end.  To her distress the sound was such that she could feel its vibrations in her teeth.  _Oh, Most Holy Seven,_ she prayed silently, _if you would please make your worshipers less noisy, I shall..._   Cersei frowned as she tried to find something the Seven might accept as an offering. It struck her that the most obvious offering had already been taken from her, thanks in large parts to the operations of fortune that the smallfolk tended to regard as the hand of the Seven, which largely made her present sufferings pointless cruelty on the godhead's part to her mind.  
  
Her religious musings were cut short by the blessed ending of the hailing.  As the High Septon marched grandly from the altar of the Sept, the Most Devout filing in behind him as he did so, she and Stannis rose to meet him, so as to receive his blessing.  As they walked to the gate of the Sept, Cersei found herself fiddling with her clothing, straightening the parts that become wrinkled as she sat.  This was her first time in public since the announcement of the pregnancy and she had gone to great lengths to cut a fine figure, in hopes of dispelling any rumors that had started as a result of what she was starting to think of as her bad time.  Her dress was fine red samite, woven with cloth of gold, accompanied by some of the finest jewels she possessed, and a lace ruff so exquisite that she would have to have it cut off and discarded after wearing it.  Her hair and makeup had been done to perfection, so that she looked every bit as radiant as she should.  _Let them try to whisper about me now! Just let them!_  
  
Her husband, she noted with a frown, was showing no such care.  Oh, his clothes were hardly rags, but they were nothing more than his usual sparse choices, all severe black, dour grey, and simple brown.  _He will not change his habits for His High Holiness, not even to impress him._   She sighed.  There was something worrying in all that, to her mind.  
  
Behind them their accompanying Kingsguard knights moved in a tight formation, scarred Ser Richard Horpe leading the Plumm brothers.  Cersei regarded the pock-marked Marcher knight and shook her head.  Another example of Stannis' tendency to flaunt the niceties.  As she understood it, Ser Richard had gone through the siege with her husband, and where another man might have let things end with a holdfast somewhere out of the way, Stannis had first named the man master-at-arms, and then as it became ever clearer that the Kingsguard members in Highgarden would not be bending their knees to him, given him a white cloak.   
  
The High Septon was leaving through the Great Doors of the Sept as they came before him.  They gave a stately bow as he smiled at them benevolently.  Cersei could feel her husband's arm go tense as he went through the ordeal.  She managed to keep a smile on her face throughout, even as the bothersome old fool came forward, and placed a hand on her belly while muttering blessings the entire time.  _You are very fortunate to have me,_ she thought, watching Stannis trying to suppress a scowl, and avoiding her own urge to kick His High Holiness.  
  
"Her Grace is the very picture of health," said the High Septon cheerily, hand still on her belly.  
  
"So my Maester told us this morning," muttered Stannis, face hardening by the moment.  
  
"And we are most pleased to hear it from His High Holiness," declared Cersei cheerily, pulling the man's liver-spotted hand off her stomach.   
  
"I am praying the Seven grant you a son," said the High Septon to the pair, his good cheer undiminished.  
  
"How fortunate for us," said Cersei, wondering if His High Holiness had ever tried praying to the Seven for the warts on his nose.  She found herself counting them despite herself.  _Three... no, four._   She shuddered slightly, despite herself.  
  
A short, rather plump Septa amongst the Most Devout gave a sniffle and wiped her eyes.  "You are like the Mother and Father to the whole Seven Kingdoms."  
  
 _Save Dorne and the Reach_ , thought Cersei.  "We thank you for such respect," she said glancing at Stannis, and then somewhat longingly at the Stairs of the Great Sept.  
  
Stannis seemed to take her hint.  "Indeed," he said turning to head away.  
  
The Septa obliviously stepped before them. "Oh, you are too kind," she stated, grabbing Stannis' sleeve so quickly that Ser Peter's hand actually went to his swordhilt on reflex.  "Both too, too kind!" she babbled on, as Stannis recoiled from her touch.  The Septa continued her clueless fumbling regardless, turning to grip Cersei's gown.  "You are most assuredly in my prayers!  My prayers and all the motherhouses under me!  You are too, too kind!"  
  
Cersei smiled broadly as she tried to untangle herself from the Septa's clutching hands.  "And we are again most thankful for your kind thoughts," she stated, cheering herself with visions of the Septa's bloody head on a spike.  "And... prayers," she added, as she finally got her gown free.  "Oh, we are most especially thankful for those."   
  
"As well you should be," said the High Septon grandly.  "Septa Naerys is the Abbess of fourteen of the most famed Motherhouses in the Seven Kingdoms. Their prayers will most assuredly work great wonders with the Seven."  The plump young woman smiled rather inanely at that.   
  
His High Holiness gave a high little titter.  "Oh, I do apologize for the name.  It must be... most astonishing, but it is... simply how things are in the Most Devout."  He gestured to a stately, tall woman who gave the King and Queen an amused smile.  "Why, there is Septa Rhaena...  Septa Maegelle..."  A pleasant looking old woman by his side gave a formal bow.  "And amongst the men... young Septon Daeron here..."  A rather plump man who Cersei put in his early forties at the latest gave a rather portentous nod at that.  "And Septon Baelor..."  Three men responded to that, causing His High Holiness to cough.  "Oh, yes, we have several Baelor's amongst our number..." Another nervous titter emerged from the High Septon.  "And, perhaps most startling, there is Septon Balerion here."  He gestured to a slender little man, with a youthful face.  "Quite startling, Balerion, ehhh?  Your name?"  
  
Septon Balerion forced on a smile and as he did so, Cersei saw the lines appear that made his face look not youthful at all.  "So I have often heard, Your High Holiness," he said in the tired, high-pitched voice of an old man.  "From a most reputable source."  
  
His High Holiness gave a pleasant nod to that.  "One of our great historians," he said to no one in particular.  He turned to Septon Balerion, a broad smile on his face.  "You must give Their Graces a copy of that great work of yours...."  
  
"Which work, Your High Holiness?" asked Septon Balerion with a slow patience.  "There are several I've labored on..."  
  
"Oh, what's the one you're working on now?" said the High Septon with an irritated wave of his hand.  
  
The septon raised an eyebrow at that, his dark blue eyes slightly amused. " _The Epitome of Histories and Prophecies_?  A rather... advanced work, I'm afraid.  Very dry."  He turned to Stannis and Cersei.  "Perhaps I can give you my _Lives of the High Septons_ , mmmm?  It is mostly complete, and filled with many amusing and educating stories of the Faith."  
  
"No, no, no," snapped His High Holiness.  "That other thing of yours is... a thousand pages long!"  
  
"One thousand four hundred and seventy-three pages, Your High Holiness," said Septon Balerion blandly.  "In most copies.  The _Epitome_ is, I freely admit, a far shorter work.  Still, it deals with rather controversial subjects, after all..."  
  
"What subjects are these?" asked Stannis, to Cersei's surprise.  
  
Balerion gave a little cough, and glanced away. "The _Epitome_ is a compendium and summary of the works of Septon Barth, Septon Murmison, Septa Ellyn, Septon Symeon, Septon Amrys, Septa Thecla, and Septon Marcyon, detailing their beliefs, their statements, as well as the similarities, and differences thereof."  He yawned.  "As I said, quite dry."  
  
The High Septon stood there, his mouth slightly gaping.  "My, my," he noted at last.  "That does sound rather... controversial."  
  
Septon Balerion gave a stately half-bow to his superior.  "Indeed.  His High Holiness' wisdom is once again like the illuminating flash of lightning during a night storm, granting brightness where none was before."   
  
His High Holiness turned to Stannis and Cersei even as they were inching away.  "I will have a copy of Septon Balerion's Lives of the High Septons sent to you," he declared serenely.  "And perhaps, Your Grace, we could discuss that other matter some..."  
  
"I have spoke my piece on it," stated Stannis brusquely, starting to go down the steps so quickly Cersei found herself straining to keep up with him.  "Leave it at that."  
  
"Well, if Your Grace will simply consider it," said the High Septon obliviously as the King and Queen hurried to their litter.  It took only a moment for them to get into it, and draw the heavy curtains as they sat down.  Stannis took a deep breath as he did so, visibly relaxing.  
  
In fact, it seemed to Cersei, as she let her head rest against the back of her seat, that this was a poor term to use.  Stannis did not merely relax... he _unclenched_ , as if he'd been forced into a rigid posture almost beyond enduring, and only now was free to step out of it.  She'd had seen him like this before, she realized, after long sessions of court, as if simply being in public was a hideous burden that he'd shrug off if possible, though this time it seemed especially bad.  He suddenly peered at her, frowning deeply.  _I must be staring_ , she realized dimly.   
  
Stannis turned away.  "That... bothersome old fool," he spat out.  
  
"The High Septon?" asked Cersei.  That seemed surprisingly harsh to her mind.  Oh, His High Holiness was assuredly an old fool, but 'bothersome' was a bit much.  ' _Irritating'.  That would be more accurate._  
  
"I..."  Stannis shook his head.  "It is... a political matter."  Stannis' frown deepened into a scowl.  "The High Septon continues to pester me that I let him speak to the court in Highgarden to broker a peace.  That whole... sermon of his was filled with what he doubtless considered subtle references to this plan, in the hopes that I will listen to the font of wisdom that is His High Holiness."  Her husband practically spat out the High Septon's honorific.  "It is a barren hope of his, of course."  
  
Cersei blinked at that.  "But... why?" she asked quietly, before she could even think of it.  "The war has to end sometime and... this could end it sooner."  Stannis regarded her in what she thought was quiet wonder, and she felt compelled to explain herself more.  "After all, we have most of the Seven Kingdoms.  Any peace we got would be the peace we wanted.  It would have to be."  
  
Stannis gave a snort at that.  "From His High Holiness?  The man who before he became the Seven incarnated was Grayence Rykker?" He shook his head.  "I very much doubt that."   
  
"Oh," said Cersei with a nod, as she considered this.  The Rykkers were a formerly minor Crownland family that had been granted Duskendale after the Darklyns' were destroyed in the Defiance.  _This does change things_ , she thought.  _High Septon or no, it would be hard for the man not to feel grateful to the Targaryens for..._ Cersei felt a sudden discomfort as she realized that the High Septon had been serving prior to the Defiance.  "That is... troublesome."  
  
"Oh it is worse than that," said Stannis quietly.  "The entire Most Devout is filled with third sons and second daughters from the Crownland houses, and half those who aren't come from the Reach.  Most of the Lords and Ladies of the Faith are kin to men who were fighting us not that long ago.  And some are kin to men still at arms against us."  He gave that dry noise that served him in place of a laugh.  "I suppose I should be pleased that the Faith Militant has been disbanded.  Or else I suspect they'd be less agreeable..."  Stannis turned towards her, suddenly animated.  "Perhaps I should thank the Seven that They no longer have knights to call Their own.  What do you think?"  
  
Cersei blinked, that discomfort growing.  "I... if... it pleases you... mayhaps..."  
  
Stannis stiffened again.  "I... a jest on my part.  A bad jest.  My apologies." He turned away from her.  "I had no desire to make you... uncomfortable by... joking on such matters."  
  
"It... is all right," said Cersei.  She bit her lip.  Truth be told, this was probably the most words she'd heard from her husband on a subject and the fact that they came almost unprompted only furthered her interest.   "You... do not care much for the Faith, do you?"  
  
Stannis was silent for a moment.  "All I learned of the Seven and Their divine justice I learned seeing my father and mother's ship destroyed in Shipbreaker's Bay just as it returned home from across the Narrow Sea," he answered quietly.  "Everything the Septons said seemed prattle after that."  
  
Cersei glanced down at her hands, as she tried to think of a reply to that.  "When my mother died," she said, at last, "the Septon at Casterly Rock spoke of how it was a great act of love, a mother giving her life for her child.  I wanted to scream, when he said that."  She'd gone to Tyrion's nursery that night, and made him scream instead.  _Or scream louder_ , she thought.  _The little monster made too much noise even then._ "Why do we even bother?" she heard herself asking.  
  
"Because so much of what we do is not our own choice," said Stannis quietly.  "Some men envy me this, or imagine they do, the fools."  Cersei felt her husband's hand reach, clumsily, for her shoulder, and land there, trembling.  
  
She let it stay there, as they traveled to the Red Keep.


	50. The Loyal Knight

**THE LOYAL KNIGHT**  
  
Ser Alliser Thorne sat there rigid against the wall of the storeroom he was being held in, watching most of his fellow prisoners guzzle the ale that bastard Stark had sent to them with his 'compliments'. _Curs,_ he thought to himself, shutting his eyes. _Curs, cravens and false wretches. That is who I am accompanied by in this... exile. For the crime of loyalty. Of being true when the world has gone false and rotten._ He crossed his hands over his knees. _Well, they'll not make me yelp, the bastards. A Thorne stays true. 'We shall prick you', oh yes, we shall..._  
  
A sudden shout intruded on his thoughts. When he opened his eyes, Alliser saw Ser Jaremy Rykker had raised his hand worriedly and was staring at in disgust. "What's wrong?" asked Ser Jarman Buckwell, quietly.  
  
"A rat," hissed the handsome Duskendale knight. "It just scurried over my hand..."  
  
"Oh, is that all?" said Buckwell, chuckling.  
  
"I'd like to see you laugh when one scurries over your hand," snapped Rykker.  
  
A burly older man seated nearby, his blond beard gone mostly white, raised his head. "Should have caught it," he said confidently. "Good eating on a rat."  
  
A man who could have been his younger brother brought a hand to his chin. "Well, it would depend on the size of the rat to my mind..."  
  
"True, true," agreed the other.  
  
"And it's best to cook them well," continued the apparent expert on dining on pests.  
  
Jaremy frowned. "I've no plan to eat rat!" he declared emphatically.  
  
"Well, you best plan to get thin then," stated the older man. "Assuming you're going to keep not eating any food the Stags offer you."  
  
Buckwell and Rykker both looked nervous at that, but Alliser merely stiffened. "We will not break bread with traitors," he stated bluntly.  
  
"Oh, aye," said the younger, "you'll hear no arguments from us on that. Curgen and me are good Dragon men, same as you!" He cupped a hand to his mouth. "Hurrah for the Targaryens!"  
  
"Hurrah!" said Curgen cheerily. A few of the other men around them took up the cheer, but most were silent. Curgen ignored that, and clapped his fellow on the shoulder. "Ahh, Luthor, it does a man good to hear that in this awful place."  
  
"That it does, brother, that it does," agreed Luthor nodding fervently.  
  
Ser Alliser groaned and rested his head against the wall. _Gods help me, I'm imprisoned with pisswits._ He found himself staring upwards at a ceiling that seemed to rise up taller than was humanly possible. _Damned Harren. Built this place too damned big. The Conqueror did the world a favor when he set that empty, evil skull ablaze_. A bitter smile touched his face. _And perhaps Viserys shall do the same to the Whents when this is over, the traitors. Raise someone true to the seat._  
  
The Stags had not been able to keep news from reaching his ears, no more then they could keep loyal men like the Hoggs from giving him good food and drink when they'd stopped there. _Those were fine men,_ he thought, as he recalled the knight's sons coming with a fine sausage, ale, and a whisper of 'Blood and fire'. And they'd brought the news--good news for the cause of the Targaryens. _Lord Tarly is showing them up every time he takes to the field, the Kingsguard remains true, and the Little Dragon's a king worth fighting for._ He'd heard the stories--how young Viserys had been crowned twice, first at Dragonstone by his mother, then again at the Starry Sept by its sacristan. How'd he'd been spirited away by the Redwynes, and how true men from all over the realm had been gathering to him. _He has a dragon's egg, they say_ , mused Alliser. _That must be something to see._  
  
An elbow shoved rudely in his ribs interrupted his thoughts--Rykker's, he saw as his snapped open. "Watch yourself, Ser," he muttered acidly. Ser Jaremy replied by bringing a hand before his mouth and then gesturing towards the room's entrance. Half-a-dozen men in grey cloaks were entering, peering about suspiciously. Ser Alliser frowned. It was impossible to know what these men were about, but it was certainly nothing good. _Perhaps they mean we shall never reach the Wall. Ill doings, but the Stags have shown they're the men for such deeds, and Harrenhal is the place for them._  
  
"Well, here they are," said one of the men who was entering, a towering burly man with a nasty snarl of a voice. He seemed to be talking to one of his companions, a tall man who kept his face well hidden by his cloak. "Shall I leave you to it, or..."  
  
"Stay," said the other in a loud whisper.  
  
The big man gave an ugly grumble. "Very well," he muttered at last. He glanced around. "Are there any knights among you?" He gestured to his companion. "He's looking for knights."  
  
Alliser stiffened. _So now it comes._ His mouth tightened. Well, let it come. If this is how they choose to finish their foes, they are craven through and through. I'll not give them the pleasure of saying I was as well. "I am a knight," he shouted, as Rykker and Buckwell stared at him in what was either shock or awe. "So do your dirty business and be done with it, you son of a..."  
  
The second man lowered his cloak, and Ser Alliser found himself staring at a face he'd not seen for months. _Impossible..._ he found himself thinking in a jumble, _he's gone, miles from here, across the Narrow Sea, an exile..._ "Ser Alliser Thorne," he said, stubbornly remaining there despite what Alliser's thoughts were, red hair gleaming slightly in the torchlight . "I see imprisonment has not blunted that harsh tongue of yours." That handsome face, showing lines that had not been there only two years ago, broke into a grin. "But importantly, it hasn't broken your courage either."  
  
"Lord Jon Connington!" said Ser Jarman breathlessly. "You... King Aerys..."  
  
"Exiled me?" said Lord Jon, with a cheerful nod. "Aye, he did. But I could not let that keep me away, when Rhaegar's brother needed me." He knelt before Thorne, and produced a key. "And I trust you share my feelings..."  
  
"Would we be in chains if we didn't?" said Ser Jaremy, with a chuckle.  
  
Connington laughed at that. "Good men."  
  
Ser Alliser gulped as his chains came off. The sudden lightness was startling, almost like a dream. _And I did not even realize I was growing used to them,_ he thought. "Lord Connington," he said, "I... I am not worth... you should not have risked..."  
  
"Ser Alliser," said Jon Connington, quietly, loosening the chains around his legs, "any man who lived through the Battle of the Bells should not be singing my praises. It is I who owes you apologies." Connington turned to Ser Jaremy and began to work at freeing him.  
  
Alliser felt tears come to his eyes unbidden, and bit his lip to hold them back. "Seven bless you, Ser. Seven bless and keep you."  
  
The bulky man glanced around nervously. "Perhaps I should get on with my other business," he mumbled.  
  
"Worried, Ser Boros?" said Lord Connington, chuckling.  
  
"I... Why did you have to use my name?" snapped the knight resentfully.  
  
"Just stay a little longer," continued Jon calmly. "I need to make sure these men are with me." He rose and glanced at the other prisoners. "I'll make this short--for those willing to fight alongside me in the battles ahead, we've weapons waiting in a cart outside, and more once we're free of this place." He eyed the crowd warily. "Well? Are you willing to come with us and fight once again for the Targaryens, or do you want to join the Kingslayer in freezing at the Wall?"  
  
"If he even makes it there," said Ser Alliser, as he rose unsteadily to his feet.  
  
Curgen and Luthor made a lusty cheer. "We'll fight for you, Lord!" said Luthor. "The Crabb brothers! Luthor and Curgen! We're Dragon men, through and through!"  
  
"Blood and fire!" shouted Curgen. Others began to take up the cheer. Ser Alliser felt a stirring in his heart. Somehow, somehow, he was going to be free, and fighting for his king once again. _Perhaps I'll even kneel before King Viserys, when this all over_. He found himself wondering if he would see that dragon's egg he'd heard of, if that happened.


	51. Gerion

**GERION**  
  
The youngest of the guests had gone to bed, joined by a smattering of the oldest, and followed bit by bit by many others, leaving Harrenhal's oversized banquet chamber inhabited by a few remaining revelers who, when seen from a distance, looked almost like children at play.  Lord Stark and his young bride had wandered off together, doubtless to indulge in some overdue marital bliss, as had the massive Lord Manderly, after astonishing all by his grace at dancing.  Lady Shella had left claiming tiredness, taking her daughter and her youngest son with her, leaving Alan there to serve as host, a task he seemed rather reticent about at best.  The young Greyjoys had been frightened off the dance floor by their terrifying elder brother, and Tyrion had followed them.   
  
Gerion had to shake his head at that. He had a love for his sad, sweet little nephew, not only the love for kin, but the love that he felt bound all the scarred and scattered who were without a place to truly call their own.  And because of that he feared for poor Tyrion, who was, he thought at times, too kind, especially for a lad with his... disadvantages.  _The world is harsh to the soft ones, after all.  Look at Father..._   Gerion glanced at his fellow revelers, where young Barbara Bracken was kicking up her heels with Lord Umber, Ser Ronald Vance was twirling Elys Keath on his arm as his brothers followed suit with their own ladies, while Addam Vance, Lord of Wayfarer's Rest, and Gwenys Blackwood swayed in a stately and proper dance that could not help but seem a bit ridiculous when joined with the raucous music, and Jaime--Jaime sat near a window, eyes closed, letting the cool night air sweep over him.  A strange feeling came over Gerion all at once, as if he were viewing the world through a glass, and if he were to make the effort to touch it, he would only strike that solid, cold pane, forever and always, no matter what he did.  
  
Gerion rose to his feet and made his way from the hall, suddenly filled with an urge to be elsewhere.  He walked unsteadily to the door, increasingly aware he was drunker than he'd realized.  _More reason to be out of here,_ he thought, forcing his way outside.  Once there he took a couple gulps of air and felt an immediate wave of relief, that was swiftly followed by his stomach suddenly turning on him.  Gerion found himself leaning forward, and then discovering, to his awful discomfort, that his sense of balance had gone off.  He staggered suddenly, and felt certain he would fall, when a pair of sturdy hands grabbed his shoulders.  "Lannister!" came the cheerful voice of Hoster Tully, as he pulled the tottering Westerner up.  "Gerion Lannister!  Just the man I wished to see!"   
  
Gerion found himself twirled about to stare the Lord of the Riverlands in his bright blue eyes.  Hoster Tully grinned at him, all bluff good cheer. "A pleasant evening, isn't it?" declared Hoster. _He is drunk_ , realized Gerion. _Drunker than I am most likely._  
  
"In-indeed, Lord Tully," agreed Gerion, only to find himself forced to grab at the wall when Hoster released him suddenly.  Hoster turned about, eyes gazing imperiously on Harrenhal's mighty stones.  He took a deep breath, and laughed to himself.  
  
"Ahh, do you feel that night air!  A tonic, Lannister, a tonic!"  Lord Tully's hand slapped Gerion heartily on the back, as Hoster took another deep breath.  
  
"I've heard some maesters say it can cause rheum and fevers," noted Gerion.  
  
Hoster Tully gave a derisive snort. "Fools, the lot of them," he declared definitively.  "The finest thing for a man, to let it circulate from his lights to his liver.  Come!  Walk with me, Lannister!  It will do us both good!"  Gerion found himself pulled along as Hoster began his stroll, taking steps with the stride of a much younger man.  "A lovely evening!" proclaimed the Lord of the Trident as they reached the stairway at the end of one of Harrenhal's great walls.  To Gerion's infinite concern, Hoster immediately began climbing the stairs.  "Have you ever seen the view from up there?" declared the Lord Paramount grandly.  "Oh, it is marvelous.  I can almost forgive Harren all his crimes, when I see the land spread out so."  A dark chuckle emerged from his lips.  "Almost."  
  
The climb was long--so long that Gerion was left wondering that half of this great folly's guards weren't regularly keeling over from exhaustion.  "Ahh!  Good to stretch the legs," declared Hoster Tully cheerfully, as Gerion steadied himself on the side.  A group of wagons filed by down below, escorted by a few men on horseback.  Gerion wondered for a second what they were doing at so late an hour, but then Lord Tully was tugging on his arm, and he found himself focusing once again on the bothersome number of steps in Harrenhal.  And then they were atop the wall.   
  
Hoster Tully gave an expansive gesture towards the landscape.  "There!  Do you see it now?"  Gerion managed a nod.  It was impressive, no doubt about it, seeing the God's Eye, the lands that surrounded it, and the rivers that fed it for miles.  "I used to love to look at all this, from here, when I was a lad."  
  
"I was unaware you spent your childhood here," muttered Gerion, then immediately wished he hadn't.  
  
"A surprising amount of it," answered Hoster.  "Harrenhal is not a Tully castle, but not for lack of effort on my father's part.  He grew up with Lady Danelle hanging over his head, in addition to all the other damned problems he faced, and that instilled in him a conviction that the Lord of the Trident needed a friendly lord in Harrenhal.  With of course the friendliest possible Lord of Harrenhal being the Lord of the Trident himself.  And so when young Symond--the Lady Shella's sole brother, to be clear, not her youngest son--passed... well, the courtship, such as it was, began."  A deep chuckle emerged from Lord Tully's lips.  "I won't bore you with the tale, since you already know the ending.  Shella wed Walter, I wed Minisa, and father was disappointed, as he usually was in these matters."  
  
Gerion wondered if this was an invitation to speak of the man's late sister Celia, and decided against it. _That was in another age, after all, and besides, the wench is dead._   "You seem well-disposed to our negotiations..." Gerion said at last, eager to break the silence.  
  
Lord Tully chuckled at that.  "Well, let us just say that I've been expecting lions to come a'calling here in the Riverlands for some time.  This present manner seems... quite favorable.  After all, bonds of kinship between our regions only aid both of us in keeping the King's Peace, and so forth..."  Hoster's smile grew ever more avuncular, his chuckle ever more good-natured, to such an extent that Gerion felt a sudden urge to make sure his purse was still there.  "So, a happy occasion, wherein we all become kinsmen through the... urrr, back roads shall we say?"  
  
The twinkle in Tully's blue eyes seemed almost predatory. _Dear Gods, is this man's symbol a trout or a shark?,_ thought Gerion, as he tried to keep from backing away.  He'd never been under any illusion why he'd drawn this duty--he was the spare Lannister, and he had a knack for making people like him despite themselves, which is why he was the one who Tywin sent to talk to the Essosi merchants and Lannisport guilds when they got bothersome, but this...  Tywin might view these people as fishermen and cattleherders, the same as he viewed the Essosi as bunch of cheesemongers, but when you stood with folks like the Brackens, the Blackwoods, and both of the Vance houses, you remembered these people had spent millennia fighting each other and any outsider who dared interfere, and when you stood with Hoster Tully, you remembered this was a house that had spent its time quietly getting ahead in all of that bloodshed.  
  
Hoster continued, seemingly oblivious to Gerion's discomfort. "So, yes, on the whole, a happy occurrence this, and probably one that's overdue in all these years of unpleasantness.  Truth be told, I always had a fondness for your father. Oh, it was the sort of fondness one has for sick children, lame animals and holy fools--but nonetheless, a fondness.  He always meant well, the poor man.  Though good intentions are not the rarest, nor worthiest of coins, are they?"  
  
Gerion managed a nod.  "I've always said he'd have made a good innkeeper."  
  
"So long as he'd gotten a staff that wouldn't make off with the drink and the coin in the middle of the night, I expect you are right," agreed Hoster.  He looked over the great wall of Harrenhal, as somewhere in the castle, someone gave out a drunken yell.  "Spring air," said Lord Tully, taking a deep breath.  "Bringing with it rain, green growing things... and weddings."  He shook his head.   "Another wedding at the Twins for me to avoid, Seven blast them.  Young Edwyn Frey--Ryman's eldest son, though if we ever meet him together, I will feign confusion, and clout you should break this pose of mine--weds Ryce Rollingford within a fortnight."  
  
That name struck Gerion familiarly.  " _Squinting_ Ryce Rollingford?" he muttered.  
  
"The very same," said Hoster.  "If it's any comfort, I'm all but sure she's the more attractive one in this coupling.  Frankly, my sympathies are with her, even if he is now the heir to the heir of the Twins."  
  
Gerion shook her head, feeling slightly dizzy.  Something bothered him.  "Why her?" he asked.  "The Rollingfords are... no one, really.  Why would a man with the Twins in his future wed into a family of Crownlands third-raters?"  
  
"Most likely, he was looking for a warm body to lie next to, with a warm womb to quicken," said Hoster calmly, "qualifications Ryce fills.  You've met his brother.  Were I in young Edwyn's shoes, I would set to breeding children to stand between me and my dear sibling with a vigor, right now."  He chuckled.  "I had enough problems with the Blackfish I got, and thank the Seven they did not give me a Black Walder for a brother."  
  
Gerion blinked slightly at that.  "You... you are not drunk, are you?"  
  
Hoster raised one grey-flecked auburn eyebrow.  "Not particularly, no," he said, smiling.


	52. The Iron Kraken

**THE IRON KRAKEN**  
  
Victarion grumbled to himself as he walked the long courtyard of Harrenhal, looking for a dark place to empty his bladder.  _Damned Harren.  Everything about this place is wrong.  Even the shadows._ Victarion swore quietly to himself as he ducked into a corner, and loosened his breeches.  The stream of piss came heavy and warm.  It dimly occurred to Victarion that this was the first thing he'd done at Harrenhal that was actually a comfort.  Including get drunk. _Damned greenlander ale_ , he thought to himself.  _Weak as water all of it_.  
  
He gave his head a shake.  He should not be here.  No Ironborn should be here.  That little dwarf his silly young brothers were fond of might have been better served by being given to the ocean at birth then being allowed to grow old and clad himself in silks and finery, but he was not wrong when he called this place Harren's Folly.  _Look it, big as sin, and leagues from the sea.  This where it all went wrong for us, and not just when the dragons came.  When the Hoares started to lay the first stone..._   
  
The stream was at last weakening, but too quickly--the dribble splashed his boots.  He gave a grumble, and wished himself back home.  If he were on Pyke right now, he would be enjoying good strong drink, in the company of his elder brothers, in preparations of the war that was to come.  Instead he was here, making his way slowly to King's Landing, watching his younger brothers make fools of themselves, with the damned Lord of Trout standing over him the entire way, looking at him in that awful knowing way of his, as if Victarion was preparing to rush off with his valuables if he let his gaze falter for a moment.  It was infuriating, all of it, but his Lord Father had ordered him to go, and Victarion was a dutiful son.  He was for King's Landing, to pledge his sword to this Stag King, and tell him the Ironborn would aid him, aye, and help him lay the Reach so low it would never trouble him again, if he would but give them a few choice baubles...  
  
Victarion frowned as he tucked his member away.  Greenlander ideas, all of it, but Lord Quellon was besotted with them.  And it was no doubt where it all came from.  This all bore the mark of _the woman_ \--he would not call her mother, never--who had so bewitched him with her charms.  His father needed to show the Ironborn he was still the great captain he had been.  Instead he stared at maps, and muttered things about terms.  Men were growing restless--the Drowned Men were making grim prophecies, and a man had appeared at the Lonely Light, claiming to be Lodos come again, though he was likely nothing more than a Farwynd bastard.  He'd been mad enough--after proclaiming his kingdom, he'd gone out in a rowboat during a spring storm to 'speak with the Drowned God', and drowned himself.  _Blaspheming fool._   Still it boded ill.  
  
He remembered the long talks with Balon and Euron, the endless complaints.  "Father won't dare anything!" Balon had snapped once.  "At times like this, he becomes a scared boy, sailing with Grandfather against the Fair Island!"  Euron had agreed, and even Victarion had to nod at this, for all this talk against Quellon made him uneasy.  Every time Balon spoke to him of action, Quellon regaled his eldest sons with the tale of their grandfather, Turlogh the Black, who dared to attack the Westerlands when the man they called the Toothless Lion even in the Iron Islands was Lord of Casterly Rock.  The tales of weakness, and the success of his lesser lords brought Turlogh south, eager to win glory at the easy pickings now available, his sons Quellon, Theon and Vickon rowing at the oars.  "He found glory for a while," Quellon was fond of noting.  "Followed by bloody death."  Oh, Lord Lannister was a weakling and a fool, but his bannerman Lord Farman was not.  When it was clear that his liege would not move against the Ironborn, he assembled his own fleet and wrought a bloody vengeance driving Turlogh's reavers away.  Turlogh was amongst those slain in that battle--Turlogh and his two younger sons.  Quellon became the Lord of the Iron Isles cradling his brother Theon in his arms as the life dripped away from him, and it had affected his entire rule.   
  
"A scared old man," Euron used to mutter to his brothers, "frighting at shadows and afraid of being outshone by his sons."  But never to Quellon's face.  No Ironborn dared to risk the Lord Reaper of Pyke's anger, which was great, and backed by prodigious strength, even now, and a great cunning that seemed to only grow with age.  Even wily Euron had been made to look a fool by their father, when he tried to match wits with him.  Truth be told, it was hard not to admire a man like Quellon, no matter how you disagreed with him.  At least, Victarion found it so.  
  
"Enjoying the night air, sirrah?" came a sharp female voice as he finished lacing up his breeches.  Victarion turned swiftly to see the eldest Bracken sister standing behind him, a saucy grin on her face.  He felt a sudden embarrassment as he wondered how long she had been standing there.   
  
"I was... I had business..." he heard himself offering weakly, and was half-amazed he even bothered to reply.  
  
"Yes, pissing," she noted.  "You see?  I can use the word and not faint."  She stepped forward bold as could be.  "Truth be told, I even do it myself on occasion, as the mood strikes me."  Barbara glanced up at the night sky.  "A pleasant evening, no?  I find this spring air makes my blood run hot.  What of you, my giant of an ironman?"  
  
"My blood runs as it runs," answered Victarion, trying to make heads or tails of the lady's speech. "Why are you pestering me so?" he asked at last, trying for a direct answer.  
  
She stared at him for a moment and then gave a chuckle.  "Well, you are a forward blunt one, I'll grant you, and as I'm in the mood for forward bluntness, I'll answer you in kind.  I followed you out here, good Greyjoy, because I like the look of you."  
  
Victarion's right hand went to his long, plain face almost of its own accord. He was not unfamiliar with the charms of women--Euron had seen to that one evening in the Summer Isles--and he had wed the year before last, besides, but even so he had never had a woman talk to him like this. "The look of...  What are you speaking of?"  
  
"I thought I was perfectly clear," answered Barbara with a shrug and a grin.  "I enjoy how you look.  Oh, you're not Jaime Lannister, or those pretty brothers of yours, but you've a pleasing enough appearance for me."  The grin grew several degrees sharper.  "We Brackens are horse-breeders after all, and if my Lord Father taught me anything it is that you don't judge a mount by the face."  She paced around him casually, giving him an appraising glance.  "You judge it by the haunch."  
  
Victarion watched her warily, trying to follow what she was saying.  "Well... very well then.  You like to look at me.  So what?"  
  
Barbara made a little pout at this.  "You wound me, giant.  I praise your looks, and what do I get in return but more angry questions."  She stepped forward, looking up into his eyes.  "Do you not like to look at me as well?"  
  
Victarion backed up at this, and felt a foot strike the wall.  "You're fair enough," he stated.  
  
The pout vanished, the grin returning.  "Very good.  And so as both of us find each other... passable at least, why don't we celebrate this shared affinity, hmmm?"  His bafflement must have been clear on his face, for the lady continued.  "Come, here we stand, a Greyjoy and a Bracken, in this place the cruel men who were masters of our kin built with our unwilling aid.  Now they are all dead, but we--we are alive.  Let's use that life to make this ruin ring out with pleasure, my iron giant."  She raised an eyebrow meaningfully at him.  
  
Victarion shifted uncomfortably at this.  He'd heard that greenlander women were strumpets and whores from living their lives in unseemly luxury, but being confronted with this in the flesh was somehow different then he imagined.  "You... your father..."  
  
"Is miles away, and would as like do little but swear and curse me for a slut if he found out," she replied.  "I am his heir, and shall be unless my dear little stepmother should somehow spit out a boy from her womb.  Should that happen, I've no doubt I'm off to some motherhouse to repent my sins, so I feel should make them well worth it.  And should it not, then rest assured whatever husband I take will swear to my virtue."  She smiled.  "As well as to my beauty, my charm, my wit, and my utter wonderfulness.  Stone Hedge may be an ugly castle, but it's a pretty piece of land."  She stepped forward, and placed a hand on his chest.  "Come now.  I've always heard you ironmen are ever keen to ravish we Riverland women, and I'm keen to be ravished at the moment."  She chuckled. "Why, if you are good enough, I may decide to keep you.  Wouldn't that be a nice little prize for an evening's play, mmm?"  
  
"I am married," said Victarion suddenly.  "To a Goodbrother of Old Wyk."  He tried to recall his wife's face to his mind but found he could not.  Ute was... an unassuming woman, something Victarion had always been glad of until this very moment.  
  
"You have my sympathies, then," said Barbara.  "Still, that changes little, does it not?  As I recall, you ironmen may have more than one wife.  You may wed me, then bring your Goodbother of Moldstick dirt wife... that is the term, no?  Anyway, you may bring her to Stone Hedge, with you, and I will amuse myself by dressing her silks and lace, and you will amuse yourself with whichever of us strikes your fancy at the moment..."  She glanced at him, frowning and irritated.  "Well?  Must I ravish you for any of this to begin?"  
  
He pushed her hand off and moved away.  "I... this tires me.  If you wish to make mock of me, do so behind my back with your friends."  
  
"But what I wish is to _fuck_ you," stated Barbara following behind him. "You cannot tell me this is such a terrible ordeal for you. I've known men, and trust me, as a rule, they enjoy it."  
  
Victarion glared at her over his shoulder.  "You are crying to be raped," he snapped.  
  
"I've heard that one before," said Barbara with a sneer. "The man who said it before you regretted it.  I'm sturdier than I look, giant, and you men have lots of little pieces that to grab and break."  She gave a dark chuckle.  "They tell me the oaf might never be able to pick up a sword again.  Which is more than fair to my mind.  Another weapon he's incapable with."  She gave a mocking bow.  "Well, a good evening to you then, Victarion Greyjoy.  When your nethers ache and pine for me in the dark, remember it was you who sent me scurrying elsewhere when you take the matter in hand."  And with that she went off.  
  
Victarion headed off himself then--in the opposite direction--swearing to himself about greenlander women and their wanton ways. That was when he heard the shout.  Worried that the woman might blame him for whatever the trouble was somehow--he would not have unearned dishonor placed at his feet--he turned and headed to the source of the noise.   
  
Barbara Bracken stood over a fallen man, prodding him repeatedly with her foot.  "You should lay off that," he muttered as he came by her side.  
  
"I see no reason," muttered Barbara, with a distasteful frown.  "This man is dead, giant, and cannot object."  She gestured to the blood pooling from the body's slit throat.  Crossing her arms, she looked at Victarion for a moment.  "You've powerful lungs, I wager.  Care to help me raise an alarum?"


	53. Eddard

**EDDARD**  
  
Ned lay there in the bed, looking at the sleeping form of his wife next to him, and wondering to himself at how they had found themselves there.  Catelyn had taken him to her rooms to show him his son, little Robb Stark, and they had marvelled at the little boy they had made together, and gone back to her bedchamber, talking quietly of things, and then... things had... moved on from that.  He stared at her face, for a moment, trying to picture it in Winterfell.  _Will you be happy there?_ he asked himself.  _Will you mind the snow and the cold?  Will you mind... mind **me** , in the months and the years ahead?_   
  
Eddard took a deep breath, and shut his eyes.  It had been so much easier when Catelyn Tully was not truly a person to him but an idea, a face on a miniature his brother flashed around when he was deep in his cups.  Then it hadn't mattered to him, what she would think of the North.  Then she was simply the girl who was going to marry Brandon in a few years, instead of this person beside him who seemed to grow more and more acutely real every time they met.  But now... all had changed, and was continuing to change.  _How will I ever keep track of it all?_ he thought dimly, his mind beginning to drift off into what he realized was sleep.  
  
His incipient slumber was destroyed by the sound of something slamming against a wall and a loud angry shout, followed by more loud cries and more slamming sounds.  As the cries continued Ned became more certain that this was not right, that something awful was happening. He was getting into his breeches when Catelyn awoke.  "Eddard..." she murmured dreamily.  "Eddard what is that noise...?"  
  
"I don't know," said Eddard, as he slid into his shift.  "I'm going to go see."  He found himself wishing for a sword, suddenly.  
  
Catelyn sat up at that.  "You are...?"  She looked around the room frantically.  "Must you?  It... it sounds like someone being murdered..."  
  
"That is why I must," muttered Eddard dully.  He at last settled on a poker from the room's fireplace, a nasty iron instrument that looked like it could do some damage if it struck a man, even as he prayed this was all born of his nerves and some drunken revelers.   
  
Catelyn bit her lip and nodded, her face taking on a determined look.  "Be careful," she said, quietly.  Eddard nodded back, and left the bedroom.  He briefly checked Robb, who he saw was sleeping, as was his wet-nurse, and then moved from the antechamber to the hallway outside.  There, the massive form of a large man squatted over a prone body, giant bawled fists striking the head over and over again.   
  
Eddard took a deep breath, and raised the poker.  "What is this?" he declared in what he hoped were confident tones.  
  
The man turned, staring at him in surprise, and then rose unsteadily to his feet.  "My lord," said Lord Wyman Manderly, bringing a blood-soaked hand almost reflexively to his chest as he managed a slight bow.  "My apologies for disturbing you.  I was... heading to retire for the night when this cur..."  He glared briefly at the body, lying utterly still on the ground. It looked to Ned that Manderly had shattered the man's skull with his hands. "...attacked me."  He stared a moment, then kicked the body. "With a knife."  
  
"Eddard..." came his wife's voice.  Even as Ned wished her back into their bed, Catelyn emerged behind him, an over-sized robe wrapped around her.  "Eddard, have you found out what...?"  Her blue eyes went wide as she saw the body.  
  
Eddard coughed.  "My lady," he said awkwardly, gesturing to Manderly, "This is..."  
  
"Lord Manderly," said Catelyn with such formality that one could almost ignore her increasingly pale face.  
  
"My Lady Stark," said Manderly with a flourish, offering a hand specked with blood and bits of skull.  "My apologies for disturbing your rest."  
  
"It... it is all right," said Catelyn, looking away and tightening her robe.  Lord Manderly moved his hand back and gave an impossibly dignified bow.   
  
"Cat!  Cat!" came a loud holler that Ned recognized as his goodfather's.  Hoster Tully came down a turn in the hall, his face furious and a sword in his hand, followed by a crowd of Tully and Whent guardsman and the distinctly uncomfortable form of Gerion Lannister.  Hoster rushed to his daughter.  "Are you all right?"  Catelyn gave a slight nod, even as her father continued to talk.  "Barb Bracken found one of the Whents' guardsmen with his throat cut.  When, we went back to my chamber to check, we found armed men had tried to sneak into my chamber to hide... they stabbed poor young Wynston Wode who was preparing my bed and fled..."  He glanced at the body lying on the floor, and then at Lord Manderly.  "What happened here?"  
  
"This man tried to attack me," explained Lord Manderly.  "I... he said things that lead me to think he mistook me for you, Lord Tully."  
  
Hoster's face went pale.  "Gods be good," he muttered.  He glanced Manderly up and down.  "Gods be good," he repeated, with a slight wince.  Another group of Tully guardsmen entered, escorting young Edmure Tully and Jaime Lannister with them.  The young heir to Riverrun looked distinctly uncomfortable--Eddard had to wonder how much his goodbrother had drunk.  Hoster regarded his son for a moment.  "Are you well, Edmure?"  
  
"F-fine, father," muttered Edmure, his face going slightly green.   
  
Hoster gave a sympathetic nod, and then glanced at one of the older guardsmen.  "Where are the other revelers, Ser Desmond?"  
  
"Few were left," answered the knight.  "Ser Allan has gone to rouse up more Whent guards, Lord Vance went to get his kin and the Blackwoods, while the Atrantian Vances had already joined Barb Bracken's muster..."  
  
Hoster rolled his eyes at the last part.  "Well, that is a... comfort."  He glanced around.  "We must all be on guard.  These murderous wretches are still at large, and seeking my blood.  Well by the Seven, Hoster Tully's blood is staying where it belongs--in Hoster Tully's veins!"   
  
"Lord Tully," said Jaime Lannister, stepping forward.  "I... it is my wish... if you would like it, to assist you in bringing these dogs to justice."  He coughed awkwardly.  "If... if I may bear a sword to do so..."  
  
Hoster glanced at the former Kingsguard and gave a nod.  "Very well.  Ser Desmond, see that young Ser Jaime has steel.  Something tells me we will have need of him before the night is done."  He looked around. "Now--let us be on our way!  We've traitors to hunt, by the Seven!"  The crowd gave a lusty yell and began to head out, Lord Manderly and Ser Jaime among them.  Hoster remained behind.  He looked at his daughter and goodson.  "Are you both all right?"  
  
Eddard found himself forcing a nod, as Catelyn did the same, apparently doing her best to look at the wall opposite her and not the corpse on the floor.  Hoster gave a grim chuckle.  "Well, the pair of you are both courteous liars, I must say."  He placed a hand on each of their shoulders.  "We will get through this.  It was a foolish, ill-planned attack, and now that it's failed, the wretches that did it will be shortly taken care of."  He looked Eddard in the face.  "You wish to ask me something, I think?"  
  
"I..." Eddard took a deep breath, then spoke.  "Why do you agree to arm Ser Jaime?"  
  
"He's excellent with a sword, and I strongly suspect these people want him dead more than they do me," answered Hoster with a shrug.  "And when the night is done, we will simply ask for his arms back, and I'm fairly certain the lad will give them to us."  He smiled at Eddard.  "You are going to find, goodson, that I'm a practical man.  I use what's at hand."  He turned away.  "Now, I strongly recommend you find something more lethal than a fire iron.  I'll send some men back here to guard..."  He glanced down at the body and rolled his eyes.  "What a night!  What a perfectly wretched night!" he muttered, as he stalked away.  
  
Eddard suppressed a shudder, and headed back into his quarters.  Catelyn glanced at him nervously. "I... I am sorry," she said quietly.  She looked suddenly at the floor.  "This was supposed to be a pleasant night."  
  
"It was," Ned replied, forcing on a smile.  "Up till now."  Catelyn smiled slightly back at him, and Ned felt his spirits lift slightly.  For a little while, at least.


	54. Jaime

******JAIME**  
  
The courtyard of Harrenhal was large enough to hold a battle in, and it seemed to Jaime as he stepped out into it, that was exactly what was happening there right now. Men darted back and forth, shouting at each other, as torches blazed, and occasionally, someone threw a stone, or fired a crossbow. _Who are they firing them at? I can see no one here but us,_ Jaime found himself wondering as he strode forward, sword in hand. It felt good to have a weapon again, as if a part of him he hadn't realized he was missing had been restored. Indeed, all of this felt good, the way it hadn't since he'd discovered what taking a white cloak from Aerys had really meant. It brought to mind riding against the Kingswood Brotherhood. He shut his eyes, and took a deep breath, taking in the smell of battle.  
  
"Oy! Oy! Move or be trampled, fool!" came a loud shout. Jaime heard the clatter of hooves on the grounds behind him and swiftly moved out of the rider's way. The horse passed quickly by him, its rider laughing uproariously. "Oh, Kingslayer!" said Barb Bracken, grinning at him in her hunting leathers. "I did not recognize you, seated from on high! Come out to hunt our forsworn guests? Best be quick, or there will be none left for you! My men are eager to please!" She threw her head back and laughed, then regarded him for a moment. "Though I must admit I've no man so pretty as you among them."  
  
Jaime felt very glad that it was a dark night or else he feared that Barbra might have seen his cheeks go red. "No," he managed to mutter. "Nor any man so deadly."  
  
"Oh, I find that folks die no matter who it is that sticks them with something sharp," said Barbra with a smile. "Weapons are quite equitable that way."  
  
Jaime glanced away. "You should not be here," he declared. "It is dangerous for a lady."  
  
Barbara smiled at that, a grin that showed her teeth. Her eyeteeth were very large, Jaime realized, and made her look half a beast when she showed them. "Oh, la, ser. I'm no stranger to the sight of blood. I often accompany my lord father on hunts, and have even taken the stag and yes, the boar on occasion." A dark chuckle came to her lips. "Why just prior to that little tourney here, we came upon a few poachers during a hunt. Father was for hanging them, but I prevailed on his kindness." She raised a dark eyebrow at Jaime, eyes gleaming in the night. "It seemed to me such a shame to not let the hounds have some exercise, after getting them riled so." She threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, that was a jolly time!"  
  
Jaime turned, glaring. "For you, I suppose. And this is another jolly time, no doubt. So, if you want to bandy words about, find someone else. I have men to kill."  
  
"Oh, such a shame," muttered Barbara. "You are proving so amusing to play with--a new sport, and one who knows when he's been hit." She gave a shrug. "Still, if you wish to kill men--well, there are three or so who've holed up in the Wailing Tower, and will not come out. A few more are at the Tower of Ghosts. And the prisoners are apparently out, with that Lord Mormont fellow you seem so fond of going after them. So if it's blood you want, go one way or the other."  
  
"Which way will you be going?" asked Jaime, narrowing his eyes.  
  
"The Wailing Tower," laughed Barbara. "Dear Ser Ronald's promised some fine Arbor Gold will be cracked open when his men capture their prey, and it has been so long since I've had that at my lips." She ran her pink little tongue over her teeth, like a cat tasting cream.  
  
"Then I'm for the Tower of Ghosts," he stated, striding away.  
  
"Your choice," said Barbara as he marched away. "I fear Lord Addam has nothing so tasty to wet your lips with, Kingslayer." And then with a clatter of hooves and another booming laugh, she was off in another direction.  
  
It was a long walk to the Tower of Ghosts, which lay by the ruins of the massive Sept Harren the Black had built and that Aegon the Conqueror had destroyed. A group of scattered Blackwood men worked alongside Lord Addam Vance's retinue throwing stones at the tower's windows, with little apparent effect. Lord Addam stood there, a satisfied look on his handsome block of a face, while his young son Karyl stood nearby, his cloak pulled up as far as he could manage to hide the wine-stain birthmark on his cheek. The pair regarded him with badly hidden surprise as he approached. "Ser Jaime," muttered Lord Addam. He smiled uneasily and managed a half-bow. "An honor to have you with us." He glanced at his son, frowning, then slapped him on the shoulder. "Karyl! Greet Ser Jaime!"  
  
The young boy gave an awkward nod. "Hello, Ser." He stared a moment, as if trying to find something to say in Jaime's face. "The night is dark, is not?"  
  
Jaime nodded. "Very dark," he agreed. He briefly considered continuing in this vein, and found that this option actually ranked somewhat below suicide. "I am here to help."  
  
Lord Addam nodded. "I thank you for the thought, Ser Jaime, but I have the matter well in hand." A satisfied smile came to his face. "We should flush the vermin out shortly, and then, well, they shall see."  
  
"Is that why your men are... throwing stones at the tower windows?" asked Jaime quietly,  
  
"We would be using burning pitch, but the seneschal forbade us," chirped up Karyl.  
  
"A bloody fool!" snapped Lord Addam, a frown screwing up his handsome features. "I tell you, what is a bit of burning pitch in this place?" He gave a savage shake of his head. "But some men..." He waved his hand in a dissatisfied manner, then simply stared balefully at the tower. "Ahh, well, we'll get them out soon."  
  
Jaime watched another stone go clattering against the tower wall, and then bounce off it impotently. "Perhaps... perhaps you should send someone in there, to capture the men."  
  
Lord Addam turned to regard him, his eyes dull bits of glass. "We've tried that. The blasted tower's too big. They run and hide and ambush my men, so we come out looking like fools." He nodded to himself. "No, we must simply make things so unbearable for them, they will come out." A few more stones clattered against the tower. Lord Addam gave another satisfied nod, and gestured for his men to throw more stones.  
  
Jaime considered matters, and decided to issue his previous suggestion more forcefully. "Lord Addam--perhaps if I slipped into the tower by myself, I could... capture some of them, and send the rest out here."  
  
Lord Addam considered the matter carefully, though something about the man's expression caused Jaime to suspect he considered many such things carefully, such as breakfast, and putting on his boots. "Well," said Lord Addam at last, "your life is in the hands of the Gods, Ser Jaime, and as such it would be a shame not to use it in Their service." He glanced up at the heavens. "'Our Eyes are on the World Above', after all." Lord Addam placed a heavy hand on Jaime's shoulder. "Gird yourself for battle, lad. And fight with honor, for the right."  
  
Jaime gave a sharp nod and turned away, glancing at the tower. Rushing to its side, he passed a few bored Vance men idly tossing stones, and entered through a cracked and ruined doorway. He darted forward, towards a unsteady looking stairway, and immediately regretted it, as the slab of rock he stepped on tottered and fell away. As he looked around for a clearer path, he realized how dark it was in the room. He could barely make out his hand in front of his face, much less the direction in which to travel. Suddenly, he thought he saw a light coming from out of the darkness. He readied his sword. "I can see you!" he declared. "I am armed!"  
  
"And I am not," answered the flat young voice. A young girl wearing a voluminous cloak and holding a lantern stepped into his view. She stared at him a moment. "Kingslayer. What are you doing here?"  
  
Jaime winced at being recognized so readily, especially by someone who he could not identify himself. _Not that the cloak helps. I can barely make out her face._ "I could ask you the same question, girl."  
  
"Walking," said the girl bluntly. "There is something I wanted to see." She yawned and looked around the room. "It wasn't you. I see I have to go further to see it." She turned and began to walk away.  
  
"It seems a bit dangerous for a young woman to walk here like this," he said loudly, hoping she wouldn't take the light with her.  
  
"Not for me," answered the girl nonchalantly. "Never for me."  
  
"Wait!" he cried out. Thankfully she stopped, at least for a moment. "I... could you help me find my way? I need some light!"  
  
The girl stood there for a moment, and then suddenly began to nod. "Yes. Yes. I agree." She turned. "Come walk with me, Kingslayer. I've decided you might prove amusing company for the moment." Jaime nervously stepped forward, already feeling some apprehension about this strange girl who knew him, but who he did not know, who went for walks in the middle of small battles in a haunted castle without fear, and who seemed to talk to people who were not there. _But then_ , he thought, stepping to her side, _what other choices do I have?_ "Stay by my side, and always at my side" said the girl, as he reached her, "never ahead of me, nor behind me. And when I say our paths have parted, then so they have--you leave my side, and walk by it no more." Jaime managed an awkward nod at this, making certain to keep up with the girl's strangely quick step. The pair reached a small stairway together, which they began to climb together, in relative silence.  
  
Jaime glanced at his companion, trying to see if he could finally place her. He had little success--her face remained mostly hidden in the folds of her cloak, his eyes only catching clear glimpses of its lower portions. Her lips, he realized with a dull surprise, were a dark blue. That stirred something in his memory, and he recalled his uncle Geri's tales of the Qartheen warlocks, who had such lips. He wondered if the girl was one, but had to dismiss it. _She doesn't sound like a Qartheeni, after all, no matter the color of her lips, and what would a warlock be doing here, now?_  
  
"Tell me, Kingslayer," she said suddenly, as they went up a floor, "do you believe in the Seven?"  
  
Jaime fumbled for an answer to this strange question. "I am a knight sworn to their service."  
  
He thought he saw the dark blue lips form into a sarcastic smile at that. "Harren the Black had his septon pray in the Sept here when Aegon came, pray for deliverance. And the septon did. He was praying when Balerion swooped down, bringing fire and death."  
  
Jaime felt a shiver at that. "Harren was an unbeliever," he whispered.  
  
"His septon wasn't," noted the girl. She paused a moment, and glanced around. "Here is where we part ways, Kingslayer." She gestured over towards a hall. "Head that way, and you will find what you seek. Or it shall find you." She gave a dismissive shrug. "I don't particularly care for the distinction, but you might."  
  
Jaime turned and nodded and began to head where she'd indicated. But as he did so it gripped him how foolish and craven he was being, leaving a young girl alone, in this place, at this time. He turned back to the stairway, hoping to perhaps talk her into staying with him.  
  
The stairway they had climbed was not there, only a hole where one might have been in the past. Glancing up he saw the girl's light making its way up stairs that faded away as she passed. Her voice came, clear in the darkness. "I told you, Kingslayer, our ways have parted. And I told you, Kingslayer, there's no danger in Harrenhal for me. So be on your way." A low chuckle reached his ears as he turned away, though perhaps it was only his imagination.  
_  
This place is cursed--fell, and ghost-haunted,_ he thought, darting down the hall _. Gods know what just happened here._ He shuddered slightly, and stopped. The two men in armor standing in the hallway stared at him, and readied their weapons. Jaime took a deep breath, and raised his sword. 


	55. Davos

**DAVOS**

Every step that Davos took through the halls of the Red Keep echoed in his ears, shouting at him that he should not be here.  _Leave off, leave off,_ he wanted cry back, _the King has asked me here_ _himself_ , but he did not.  It would look foolish, and Davos knew he looked foolish enough as it was.  He moved quickly, aware of the eyes of servants on him, knowing that they saw him there, and knew he did not belong. He walked through the winding hallways, hoping he was remembering the directions clearly, until at last he saw the door with the man in the white cloak before it.

"Declare yourself," drawled Ser Lyn Corbray, hand moving slowly to the hilt of his sword, a dull smile on his face that convinced Davos that the Kingsguard knew exactly who stood before him.

Davos took a deep breath.  " _Ser_ Davos Seaworth," he said, with what he hoped was a reasonable amount of pride.  "Here on the King's business."

For a moment--just a moment--Ser Lyn left his hand at his sword hilt.  And then he snapped it quickly away.  "Ahhh, yes, Ser Davos," he said, that dull smile never leaving his handsome face.  "I was told you would come.  My apologies.  You've such a common face.  It's easy to mistake you for anybody."  He leaned backwards and gave a solitary knock upon the door.  Then he opened it, insolent eyes staring at Davos, as if daring him to step inside.

Davos nodded in thanks and ducked in.  He did not like Lyn Corbray, and not simply for his contemptuous ways.  One heard things about him, and while Davos was not a man to idly credit rumors, the ones he heard about Ser Lyn were of a piece and seemed horribly likely--stories of men killed in needless duels, pilgrims on the roads near Heart's Home dying mysteriously, and others of a more prurient nature.  Stannis may have given the man a white cloak, but Davos doubted it lay within anyone's power to give Ser Lyn a heart that matched it.

A raucous cry and the sound of wings beating frantically interrupted Davos' thoughts.  The room he'd entered was full of ravens, he realized.  He was still taking this in when Maester Cressen came to his side.  "Ahh!  Captain Seaworth!" declared the old man brightly, tugging on Davos' sleeve.  "Come... come... His Grace has been waiting for you."

Davos stared around at the cages, as he followed the old man.  "I... thank you... what are all these...?"

"Ahh, yes," said Cressen still smiling, "nothing to concern yourself with.  The King has made me put up a rookery here..."

"As the Grand Maester takes all the ravens he gets to the Hand first," said Stannis blankly, seated before a large table, a large parchment spread before him.  On it were placed little wooden chits.  The King was reading a missive of some sort, his face an inexpressive mask.  "And if the messages are not to the Lord Hand's liking, I tend to see them later, if at all."  He moved a group of chits over the parchment, looked at them for a moment, then gave a satisfied nod.

"I... see, Your Grace," said Davos, feeling certain that he was in the midst of a discussion that went well beyond him.  He coughed.  "You... you asked me here..." he began at last.

Stannis stood and turned towards him.  "I did."  The slightest of smiles touched the King's face.  "You have done me a great service, bringing that fleet from Braavos..."

Davos averted his eyes.  "I have only done as Your Grace asked me," he replied, almost mumbling.

"That is no small thing," said Stannis.  "My own grandfather, the former Master of Ships, failed to do so, or indeed, even to arrive.  That is why he is the former Master of Ships, and you now hold his post."

There was silence for a moment.  "Your Grace... what do...  Sire, you can not mean..." Davos leaned towards the King frantically.  "I am a smuggler!  Born in Flea Bottom!  You cannot want me to be your Master of Ships!"

"Lord Seaworth," said Stannis bluntly, "what you were is of no importance to me.  What you are now is what I think of, and the answer is my good and loyal man, who has done me great favor."

"As you have me, Your Grace, as you have me..." began Davos.  "But it is..." He stopped.  " _Lord_ Seaworth?"

"Indeed."  Stannis glanced at Cressen, who produced a parchment from his sleeve.  For a moment, he offered it to Davos, but then, with a glance from the King, cracked open the seal and began to read it aloud.

"For his good and leal service, Ser Davos Seaworth, made a landed knight by my royal favor, is now named Lord of Driftmark, and Master of Tides, titles that shall be transmitted unto his heirs hereforth, along with the lands and honors so designated.  So say I, Stannis Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men..."  Cressen coughed, and rolled the parchment up again.  "And so forth," he said, offering the parchment to Davos.

"Now, Lord Seaworth," said Stannis, as he turned back to his table, with its parchment and chits, "you may, if you so choose, refuse to be my Master of Ships, if you truly believe yourself not to be up to the task.  I will be disappointed, but it would ill behoove a king to force a burden onto a back not strong enough for it.  But this honor-- _this_ honor, you have no choice.  I have given it to you, and you shall keep it.  Is that clear?"

Davos stared at the parchment in his hands, trying to make sense of it all.  "It is... absolutely, Your Grace," he answered at last.  "I... I accept the post, sire.  I will be your Master of Ships, if that is your wish."

"As I have made abundantly clear, Lord Seaworth, it is," replied Stannis absently, his attention back on the chits laid out before him.  "Maester Cressen, please show my Master of Ships out.  And make certain to address him by his full title as he leaves.  I would not have Ser Lyn make a mistake in the future."

"Of course, Your Grace," said Cressen with a smile.  The old man turned, and began to make his way to the door. A sudden loud squawk made him stop, as a raven flew in through the window and landed before him, a message tied to it.

"My goodness," said the old Maester.  "This raven has been sent with speed..." He carefully knealt, herding the bird towards his hand, and then skillfully plucked the message from it.  He walked to the King and placed the message directly in his hands.  Stannis quickly opened it and read, his expression seeming to grow darker by the second.  When it was finished he tossed it angrily before him.

"Lord Seaworth--it appears I spoke too hastily," he muttered, grinding his teeth.  "Please stay.  An urgent matter has arisen, and we have much to discuss."


End file.
